Tom & Loki Stuff

“We’re really sorry about this,” the HR lady, Linda,  says over video call. Her red lipstick is smudged slightly but other than that there’s not a hair out of place. She looks poised, giving you a sympathetic smile as you listen to her drone on about a four week severance package that will most definitely not cover both your bills and your rent. You haven’t processed what she’s saying, not really. Something about how the company had to restructure because of changes the CEO had wanted to implement and how that meant they were downsizing your team to everyone but you and three others. You had been at the firm for nearly seven years now, right from when you graduated college. Did you like your job? Not really. But it paid the bills and was a stable source of income. At least until now. 

“Do you have any questions?” Linda asks you. You clear your throat before you speak.

“No,” you say. “Thank you for, uh, explaining that to me.” 

She nods, looking pleased. She tells you that she’ll send you an email with everything you talked about and that once you’re done with this call, you can go ahead and drop your laptop off with your manager who had conveniently avoided joining this meeting. You nod, dumbly. The goodbyes with your team are awkward. You hadn’t been particularly close to any of them but Mary, a gentle woman in her fifties starts tearing up as you hug her farewell and the idea of comforting someone else over you losing your job has you saying your goodbyes even faster, telling everyone how much you appreciate them and how much you’ll miss seeing them everyday. Your manager, Brian, thumps you on the back, hard enough that it startles you but you know he means well in the way a forty-something year old man in corporate America does. It’s only when you leave your office building that you allow yourself to truly feel. Your vision clouds as you stop on the corner of the street. You can feel that stinging feeling in your nose and you know you’ll start crying. Thankfully, you’re interrupted by your phone buzzing in your pocket.

“Hey,” you greet Maria. You had texted her as soon as you got the meeting invite, knowing what it was. That hadn’t made it any easier. 

“Hey babe,” she says, sympathetic. “How did it go?”

You let out a sarcastic laugh. 

“It was awkward and shitty,” you say. “I have severance for a month but after that it’s gonna be tough.”

“You know I’m here to help however you need,” Maria says immediately. It makes you smile, her kindness. You met Maria in college and have been best friends since that terrible frat party with the sticky floors and disgusting boys that you both escaped from. You had ended up at Dairy Queen for the rest of the night, sharing a plate of fries and a vanilla milkshake and had been inseparable ever since. You both had planned living in Austin together after you had graduated and had even been roommates up until she had met Tommy. Eight months later they had moved in together. It had worked out fine since you had just gotten a raise and were able to afford a one-bedroom apartment but now? You didn’t even want to think about it yet. As if hearing your internal monologue, Maria cuts in.

“I was thinking you need a break,” Maria says. “A little weekend trip.”

“Maria,” you start, unsure. “I don’t think I have the funds to go on a vacation. Even if I really, really want to. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, but this is the best part!” she says, immediately. “Remember how Tommy and I were going to Vegas with Nina and her boyfriend for a couples getaway? They had to cancel last minute because he dislocated his shoulder bouldering. But the flight and the room’s already paid for and they’re fine with someone taking over since it’d just go to waste.”

“And you want me to third wheel you and Tommy?”

Maria laughs and it makes you smile.

“Well, not quite,” she says. “Tommy asked Joel to tag along too. He’s been sort of a recluse since his youngest, Ellie, went off to college and Tommy’s worried about him.”

You’ve heard of Tommy’s brother before. Joel Miller. He works with Tommy and they run a contracting business together. He’s older and a bit grouchy if what Tommy says is true and you’re not sure you’d want to share a room with him. Not when you’re feeling particularly sensitive. Before you can refuse, Maria continues.

“Tommy’ll share with him,” she says, quickly. Again, as if she’s read your mind. You suppose twelve years of friendship will do that. “And we can room together. It’ll be like old times.”

“And you’re sure you guys are okay with that? Wasn’t this supposed to be a romantic getaway?” you ask, uncertain. You don’t want to impose, especially when it’s so clearly out of pity. Maria snorts.

“I live with Tommy,” she says. “I can most definitely survive two nights not sharing a room with him. And trust me, he’s the one who pitched this idea. Something about Joel needing to get out of the house.”

You contemplate it for a handful of seconds before you decide, fuck it. You just got laid off from a company you’ve given most of your adult life to and you deserve a fun weekend in Vegas. So what if you spend half your severance on overpriced cocktails? 

“Okay,” you agree. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Over the phone, Maria squeals.

“Perfect!” she says. “I’m going to email you the flight details. It’s tomorrow afternoon at 3 p.m.”

“Sounds great,” you say, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Thank you, Maria.”

“You deserve a break,” she says. “I know this sucks and as soon as we’re back, I’m going to help you find a job but for the next two days we’re going to have fun. And we’re going to have silly cocktails and gamble, within reason, and lounge by the pool. Okay?” 

“Okay,” you agree. Something loosens in your chest, the heavy anxiety that had been cloaking you seemingly disappears. Maria’s right. This isn’t the end of the world and change can be good, right? You didn’t even like your job all that much anyways. You’ll figure it out. 

At least, you hope you will.

The airport is crowded and chaotic when you get there. Your uber driver had sped for most of the journey, fast enough that you had to clutch your seat and pray that you’d make it in one piece. Still, it seems almost pleasant compared to the TSA line that seems never ending. It’s as if everyone is travelling this weekend and it leaves you antsy. You hate being late and the idea of missing your flight while you’re at the airport might just break the fragile resolve you’ve built up in the last twelve hours. When you had gotten home the night before you had allowed yourself to cry in the shower, have two glasses of wine and then you reined it in, realizing you still had to pack. If you didn’t feel good, you might as well try to look good which is how you decided on the shimmery dresses and rather plunging going-out tops that you hadn’t actually worn in what felt like ages. Now, you wonder if you’ve packed too much with how heavy your carry-on is. 

After what is at least an hour, you finally make it through security and head to your gate. Maria had texted that her and Tommy had just made it through security as well, and were waiting at the gate with Joel. As you arrive at B7, you spot Maria quickly. She waves at you, a big grin on her face. When you’re close enough, she engulfs you in a hug.

“Hey,” she says, squeezing you. You rest your chin on her shoulder, squeezing back. “Doing okay?”

You nod against her. “I’m alright,” you say. “I’ll be alright.”

She pulls back, her brown eyes gentle as she watches you. Pleased with what she sees, she nods. 

“Hey there,” Tommy says and for a second, you had forgotten that this wasn’t just a girls trip. You pull away from Maria, looking at Tommy. His hair is a bit longer now since the last time you saw him but he looks the same as always, a bright smile on his kind face. 

“Hi Tommy,” you say, pulling him into a quick side hug. He pats your arm and you wonder if he must know too. “How are you?”

“Survived TSA so I can’t complain,” he says, all easy charm. You laugh, nodding. It’s only then that you notice the man next to him, watching you with a furrowed brow. Tommy follows your line of sight.

“Oh right,” he says. “This is my big brother, Joel. Don’t think y’all have met yet but Joel, this is Maria’s best friend.” You smile at Joel, introducing yourself. He looks at you as if you aren’t there at all, only nodding in return. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” you add, unsure if his surliness is specific to you. Tommy had mentioned that Joel could be serious, veering on the side of grumpy. Still, you had never met anyone that said so few words upon introduction.

“You too,” Joel says even though he sounds as if he’s pulling teeth. His voice is deeper than Tommy’s and he’s definitely a few years older, with patches of grey in his beard. His hair is pushed away from his face, almost damp as if he’s just taken a shower, and it’s also threaded with silver. His brows stay furrowed and he doesn’t smile, not once. 

“Well then,” Maria says, breaking the uncomfortable tension between you and Joel. “We land at 6 p.m and I was thinking we could get ready and then grab some drinks at this bar.” She pulls out her phone, showing it to you and then Tommy and Joel. You nod, smiling at her. 

“It looks amazing, Maria,” you say and Tommy agrees. Joel just nods, his eyebrows still furrowed. You tamp down the irritation that builds up inside of you. How he’s related to cheerful Tommy Miller is a mystery to you. A muffled voice announces that it’s time for boarding so the four of you make your way towards the counter. Tommy and Maria are whispering to each other, smiles on their faces. You look away to give them privacy, smiling at how giddy they both seem with each other. Your eyes land on Joel, who’s standing adjacent to you and squinting down at your bag.

“Something the matter?” you ask Joel. You want to ignore him and his shitty attitude but there’s something about him that makes you want to prod. He looks up at you with his dark eyes.

“Your bag’s overweight,” he says. You can feel yourself flush, already annoyed at the certainty of his tone. You know he’s right. Still, the way he says it, like a disappointed parent, rubs you the wrong way.

“I know,” you say. He says nothing, looking away. You resist the urge to scoff. What was his problem? If he didn’t want to come on the trip so badly, he could have just stayed home. You push your annoyance away, turning back towards the boarding gate. Eventually, you make it to the front. Tommy and Maria have already passed through, lining up ahead of you. The man at the front looks down at your carry-on just as Joel had. 

“It’s too large,” the man says. “You’ll have to pay and check it in.”

You can feel the tips of your ears heat up. Joel is right behind you, listening. You hate that he was right. 

“Right,” you say. “How much would that be?”

“Ninety dollars, ma’am,” the man says and your eyes widen. 

“Ninety?!” you ask, voice pitched high. 

“New policy,” the man says looking bored. “We apply a late check-in fee if you have to check it in at the gate. Because of the inconvenience.” He pointedly looks behind you, likely at the line of people waiting to board. You can feel yourself growing flustered. Before you can speak however, you hear someone clear their throat. 

“She can take the space for my bag,” Joel says. The gate employee looks behind you, and you shift as well, looking back at Joel. He lifts up his duffel, and you try not to stare at the way his bicep flexes, straining against his grey t-shirt.

“It doesn’t work like that, sir,” the man says. You can tell he’s annoyed, and you’re about to tell him that it’s fine, that you’re good to pay the ninety dollars even if you currently are jobless and not doing great financially. “Her bag is too large. It won’t fit.”

“I can make it,” Joel says, jaw clenched. He sounds as annoyed as the gate employee now and it makes you nervous. The last thing you need is for an argument to break out because of your poor planning. 

“It’s okay,” you say to Joel, pulling out your credit card. You hand it to the gate agent and watch as he swipes it. Your phone buzzes with the notification of the transaction and you don’t want to look at the egregious amount you just spent to get your stupid bag on this flight. You watch as he ties the baggage label to it before setting it aside. He scans your boarding pass and you walk through quickly, joining Tommy and Maria in line. Maria raises an eyebrow and you know she’s about to offer something insane like paying you back for the bag so you put on a bright smile. 

“All good,” you say, quite unconvincingly. Neither her nor Tommy look like they believe you but Maria must see the pleading look in your eyes to leave it because she does. She nods, giving you a gentle smile. Joel joins the three of you right after and the line begins to move. When Maria and Tommy are distracted in conversation, you turn to Joel.

“Thank you,” you say. You watch as his gaze settles on you, his dark brows furrowed like he doesn’t understand what you just said. You clear your throat. “For uh, for trying to help back there. I appreciate it.”

“I told you your bag was too big,” is all Joel says in response, voice gruff. Right. And here you were, expecting him to not be a dick. That was your mistake, thinking he was actually a gentleman because of one act of semi-kindness. You scoff, not dignifying him with a reply. Maria seems to overhear the entire interaction because she slows down in front of you, gesturing for Joel to go ahead. He does, and you watch him and Tommy begin to talk in their low southern drawls. 

“He can be a bit…” Maria starts. 

“Of a dick?” you say and she laughs, hiding it behind a hand. 

“He wasn’t always this bad,” she says. You’re both keeping your voices low so that no one but you both can hear one another. “He’s just been going through a rough patch since Ellie left. His older daughter Sarah’s been out of the house for a few years now. Empty nest syndrome, I suppose.”

“Right,” you say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Maria sighs, wrapping her arm around yours so that they’re interlocked. You lean into her.

“I promise this will be fun,” she says and something warm cracks open in your chest. You’ve always been grateful for Maria’s friendship, but you have a newfound appreciation for her now. Distracting you into having fun, making sure you’re not wallowing in your apartment for the next few days which is how you usually have been when life hasn’t gone your way. You can be in your head a lot, hypercritical of yourself in a way that has never been productive. You know it. But it’s a hard trait to break away from and Maria knows that too. So she’s doing the next best thing. Breaking you away from your mind for a bit.

“Oh I know it will,” you say. “Because we’re about to get day-drunk for two days straight.”

“And night-drunk,” Maria adds. 

“And whatever’s in between,” you say and she laughs, tugging you closer. 

A few minutes later and you’re all finally at the door of the plane. Tommy and Maria go ahead of you and Joel. Joel steps aside, allowing you to pass in front of him. It’s surprisingly chivalrous for a man who’s been glaring at basically everything. You say a quick thanks to him before handing your boarding pass over to the flight attendant, who smiles at you brightly. She points you in the direction of your seat and it’s only when you overhear her repeating Joel’s seat number back to him that you realize that you’ll be sat next to each other. You suppose it makes sense since these tickets were originally for Maria’s friend and her husband but you’re still disappointed. Two hours next to Joel Miller and his shitty attitude will be a challenge in itself. You contemplate falling asleep, but planes make you too nervous. 

When you sit down, you realize the flight’s also too short to have an entertainment system. Or maybe too old, given the faded cushions and flimsy plastic that make up your chair. You’re grateful you packed your kindle, pulling it out before you shove your bag under the seat in front of you. You shuffle your feet, trying to find the most comfortable position given that your handbag is taking up so much space. You can’t even remember what you packed in it for it to be so large. You lean down to shift it, jamming it further under the tiny alcove below the seat in front of you when a shadow looms over you. You look up to find Joel watching you, mouth pursed. He might as well be glowering, really. His arms are crossed over his chest, the material of his t-shirt straining over them and if it was anyone but him, you’d appreciate the bulge of his biceps and the well fitted shirt.

You give up trying to make more leg room for yourself and shift closer to the window, not wanting to be in Joel’s space. And he takes up a lot of it, with his broad shoulders and strong thighs. You try not to be overt as you watch him attempt to get comfortable as he settles in his seat, but you can tell by the grimace on his face and the way his knees hit the seat in front of him that it’s to no avail. You almost feel bad for how he’s cramped. Surely it can’t be comfortable on his legs. You’re not as tall as him but even you’re struggling. 

“Here,” you say, your kindness getting the better of you. He looks up, watching as you shuffle your legs so they’re both pressed against the side of the plane you’re closest to so that he can spread his legs out wider. He doesn’t, just watching you with furrowed brows. You clench your jaw, already regretting your kindness. 

“So you can spread your legs a little more,” you explain even though it’s obvious. “Isn’t that what you guys do anyways?”

Joel raises a brow, mouth still shut. Maybe he was cursed by someone in a past life so that if he says more than ten words a day, he’ll spontaneously combust or something. 

“Manspreading,” you explain. It was meant to be a sort of joke but now it comes off awkward, mostly because of Joel’s bored expression. 

“Right,” he finally says. You watch as he shifts, moving his legs so they’re further away from each other and no longer pressed up against the hard plastic of the seat in front of him. 

“Thank you,” he adds, once he’s situated himself. He still looks like he’d rather be anywhere but on the plane but at least he found some manners. You nod, not wanting to continue the conversation, if you can even call it that. You shift closer to the window just as the plane jolts, and your breath catches. You can feel your entire body stiffen as the plane begins to move, slowly taxiing down the runway. You know what’s about to happen next, that it’ll speed up and then you’ll feel the shift of gravity as you take-off. You hate it. You shift again, looking away from the window. It does you no good, watching everything become tinier and further away. It just makes you hyper aware of how far up you are and how far down you’d go if you did have the misfortune of crashing. You look to your left and catch Joel’s gaze. It isn’t as sharp as earlier but his brows are still furrowed.

“You’re scared of flyin’,” he says and it isn’t a question more so a statement. You let out a sigh, slumping in your seat. It’s at that moment that the plane speeds up and you stiffen again, sitting up. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice only slightly shaky for which you’re thankful for. “Terrified of it. I hate it, really.”

“You know the likelihood of dyin’ in a plane crash is one in eleven million,” Joel says. If you weren’t terrified right now, you’d think it was sort of nice of him trying to make you feel better even though saying the words plane crash while you’re taking off isn’t the best way to do it.

 “I’ve heard it all –,” you stop talking as the plane jolts as it lifts off the ground. You shut your eyes, gripping the handles of your seat. You do the breathing method you once learned through a YouTube video, inhale for four, hold for seven and then let go for eight but you can feel your pulse thundering in your ears. Suddenly, your left hand is engulfed by something large and warm. You open your eyes, looking down to see your hand being held in Joel’s much larger, much warmer one. You look up at him to ask him what he thinks he’s doing but he beats you to it. 

He presses into a point between your thumb and index finger, as he starts to speak. 

“Accupuncture,” Joel says, voice gruff. “This point’s supposed to help with anxiety and all that.” 

The shock of it – of grouchy Joel Miller talking about anxiety and acupuncture startles a laugh out of you. He narrows his eyes and it makes you laugh a little harder. 

“I just didn’t take you for an acupuncture guy,” you say, but your voice isn’t unkind. You can see the tips of his ears go red although his face stays stoic. 

“Well when you’ve got two daughters, they teach ya a lot,” he says. “My older girl Sarah’s real interested in mindfulness.”

It’s sweet, really, and your mouth pulls into a smile before you can catch yourself. Joel presses into the pressure point once more, and you focus on the juxtaposition of your hands. His hand is large and tan, and you can feel a callous where he presses into your own, which is smaller and softer from the hand cream you always keep in your purse. It’s only when he presses into your hand a fifth time that you realize that the plane is already in the air and seeming to level out. Your breathing is also normal. As if Joel notices in that same moment, he drops your hand. For a split second you miss the warmth of it. 

You clear your throat.

“Thank you,” you say. “Didn’t even notice that we were done taking off.” 

Joel nods, and you watch as his hands curl into fists on his lap. You lean back into your seat and close your eyes. Before you know it, you’ve drifted asleep. 

The hotel rooms Tommy and Maria have booked make up for the shitty flight seats. Truly, you shouldn’t be complaining about the flight either because it was free but still. You had stayed asleep for the rest of it, only jolting when the plane had landed. When you had glanced at Joel, he was already watching you. You had given him a sheepish smile and his mouth had twitched before he looked away.

Now, you’re sitting on the king sized bed, waiting for Maria to come out of the bathroom and already wearing the best dress you own. It has a halter neck and it glitters, a sparkling silver, that falls against you almost perfectly. You’re concentrating on putting on a second coat of mascara when the door opens and Maria comes out. She looks like a million dollars, wearing a wine red dress that complements her brown skin. She wolf whistles when she sees you and you laugh, feeling lighter than you have in months. After you’ve swiped on some more glittery eye shadow and lip gloss, you slip into your shoes and grab your purse, making sure your wallet is in there. Maria follows you out the door, closing it behind her. She hands you the keycard and you slip it into your purse.

“Tommy said he and Joel were getting a drink at the bar,” she says. “Said we were taking too long to get ready.”

Her voice is fond as she says it and it makes you smile. You’ve never seen a couple quite like Maria and Tommy. They’ve been in sync since the moment they met, understanding each other in a way that you didn’t think existed until you saw them together. 

“Well I think he’s going to appreciate it when he sees you,” you say and she smiles, her eyes twinkling in the golden light of the hotel corridor. 

“So how was it sitting next to Joel?” Maria asks, eyes curious. “Did he talk much?”

You snort. “Oh yeah, loads. Just wouldn’t shut up, really.”

The sarcasm drips off your voice and Maria laughs, interlocking her arm with yours. 

“It takes him a bit to warm up,” she says and you hum. “But he really is a decent man.”

You think of how he had held your hand to calm you down, pressing down on the soft part of it and you believe it. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “I can see what you mean.” 

Maria raises a brow, not expecting you to acquiesce so easily. 

“He, uh, he helped me when I was feeling anxious during take off,” you explain. “Found some acupuncture point on my hand and it helped me calm down.”

“He held your hand?” she asks, and it sounds incredulous when she puts it like that even though he had, for those few moments. You shake your head. 

“Not really,” you say, too quickly. “Just like. He just helped, okay?”

“Huh,” Maria says after a moment. You can see the gears twisting in her mind and you nudge her. 

“Stop it,” you say. Her eyes twinkle, a smile pulling at her mouth.

“Stop what?” she asks, innocently. It makes you snort.

“Thinking whatever it is you’re thinking that’s putting that glint in your eyes,” you say. She grins now, her dimple appearing. You groan as the elevator doors slide open.

“Well goddamn,” a familiar voice says. Tommy steps up to Maria, his eyes roving over her and she smiles, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He looks smart in his printed shirt and dark jeans, the curls of his hair styled so they fall against his neck. They make a striking couple. 

“You look very nice too,” he adds, giving you a smile. You nod in thanks. It’s then you notice Joel behind him, stoic as ever. He’s wearing a fitted green shirt and a pair of dark jeans. It seems like he fixed his hair too, now slicked away from his forehead like he just got out of the shower. You notice four shot glasses in his left hand. He holds them like they’re nothing, fitting them all in one palm. You realize you’re staring when you catch his eye, one eyebrow slightly lifted as if he’s asking you a silent question.

“Those for us?” you ask, ignoring the fact that he caught you looking. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. 

“Thought we could get a headstart on those drinks,” Tommy explains. 

“And how many have you already had?” Maria asks and Tommy winks. 

He grabs two glasses from Joel, handing one to Maria and then to you. The four of you move to the side, before standing in a circle. It feels silly, like you’re back at a college houseparty, but it makes you smile. You clink your glasses and then you down the shot. It burns as you swallow and you squeeze your eyes shut. It’s been a while since you’ve done shots, nowadays opting for a glass of wine or a less sugary cocktail. It settles in your stomach hotly and you hold your breath for a second, trying to get used to the heat of the alcohol. 

“We have to catch up to them,” Maria says. She tugs your arm, steering you towards the hotel bar. Before you know it, there’s another shot glass in front of you. This time though, Maria asks for slices of lime to go with which you’re grateful for. It hits you almost immediately, your vision feeling fuzzy. With how hectic work had been, you haven’t had much time to go out and let loose. You put down the shot glass, reaching for your wallet but a hand is reaching past you, giving the bartender a credit card. You look up to find Joel next to you. He’s not touching you exactly but you can feel the heat radiating off of him. 

“I got it,” you say, feeling a little more sober than you did a few seconds ago. You don’t need him to pay for you and you’re not sure why he would given his general surliness. Joel says nothing, waiting as the bartender hands him back his card. You watch him write down a tip before he’s sliding the bill back to the other side of the shiny counter. The two shots have loosened your tongue. 

“God, do you ever talk?” you ask. “Or do you owe someone money every time you say a word or something.”

Joel looks at you now, his gaze sharp. You see a corner of his mouth lift for a millisecond before it settles back into his typical almost-frown. 

“Do you always complain this much when a man buys you a drink?” he asks and it stuns you for a second. Maybe it’s the implication of it. The idea of him wanting to buy you a drink, with his big hands and broad frame. It’s also probably the two shots of tequila you just had on an almost empty stomach. 

“Is that what you’re doing then? Buying me a drink?” you ask, and you don’t mean for it to sound like a line because it really isn’t. You’re more so curious about silent, grouchy Joel Miller who gives acupuncture massages and pays for shots of tequila but avoids making conversation with you. You think his eyes might darken and they flick down before meeting your gaze. 

“Hey!” Tommy says. “We have a reservation to get to so we gotta go. We’re gonna be late and you know how my girl feels about tardiness.”

Whatever conversation had been building between you and Joel evaporates into thin air. You watch him nod at his brother, following him out. You turn around and follow them, ignoring the heat in your cheeks.

Dinner is delicious. The restaurant is gorgeous but that doesn’t surprise you since Maria had picked it. The food is perfectly spiced, every morsel melting into something decadent against your tongue. The conversation is good too, at least between you, Maria and Tommy. You learn more about Tommy and Joel’s contracting company, how they had just signed on to do a big project in the south side of the city.

“That’s so cool,” you say, voice pitched with enthusiasm. The second cocktail you’re on probably contributes some of it but still. 

“It’s fine,” Tommy says, a bashful smile on his face. “It was really my brother here that did the negotiatin’, sweet talked us into a pretty good deal.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. Both Tommy and Maria look amused while Joel just looks like he bit into a lime. 

“Somethin’ funny?” he asks, eyebrows drawn together. 

“Just hard to imagine,” you say. Tommy guffaws and Maria hides her laugh behind a sip of her cocktail. 

“And what is it that you do for work?” Joel asks and almost immediately a pit forms in your stomach. You see Maria stiffen in her seat and the smile on Tommy’s face falters. So he must know then. It makes sense, you suppose. They do live together and now that you think of it, he hasn’t asked you about work which is one of your typical topics of conversation. 

“I uh, did data stuff at this big firm downtown,” you say. “Got laid off yesterday though.”

You watch as Joel’s eyes shift. He swallows, and you know you’ve made it uncomfortable. You try not to feel embarrassed at your confession. Lay offs happen all the time and you know it’s not a personal reflection on who you are. That doesn’t stop it from feeling that way.

“Oh,” Joel says. You’re not sure if you’re imagining his voice softer than it was earlier. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You shrug, uncomfortable. “It happens.”

The air is tense and you want it to go back to how it was before so you smile a little brighter, sitting up straighter in your chair.

“How about another round of drinks?” you propose, and Tommy nods, flagging down the waiter. You catch Maria’s eye and you know she sees right through you. You give her a real smile, one she returns but her eyes are still concerned. When you glance at Joel, you find that he’s already looking at you. There’s no pity in his gaze, not that you were expecting it but you’re still glad. Instead, it’s softer somehow, less sharp. When the waiter brings over your drinks, you’re grateful for something to do. Maria raises her glass, and the three of you follow, clinking them together. You take a big gulp of your spritz, the fizziness making your nose twitch. 

“So where to next?” Tommy asks, turning to Maria. 

“There’s this speakeasy that makes specialty cocktails and has some of the best whisky in the city,” she says. “I made us a reservation there for 10 p.m.”

“Of course you did,” Tommy says, voice fond. You smile as you watch them. There’s so much devotion in their eyes. 

Joel glances at his watch brows furrowing.

“We should probably wrap up,” he says. “It’s thirty past and we don’t wanna be late.”

You watch as Maria beams at him. She really is a stickler for timeliness. The four of you finish off your drinks, and you can feel the warmth of your cocktail heating your skin. You thought that dinner might help the tipsy feeling you have but you still feel the buzz of alcohol. You like it though. It makes you feel happier and you could use some of that after the week you’ve had. The waiter comes by with the check and just like at the bar, Joel swoops it up before anyone else can.

“We can divvy things up at the end of this weekend,” Maria says but Joel shakes his head. 

“It’s on me,” he says and you’re reminded of the bar. “Y’all planned this and I’m not even payin’ for my flight or hotel room so it’s the least I can do.”

“Well, I didn’t really do anything,” you add in. Joel looks at you just as he finishes signing the slip of paper. He doesn’t dignify you with an answer and you’re not surprised by it but it still irks you a bit. It’s not that he’s talkative with everyone else but he seems more reserved with you and you can’t figure out why. Careful to speak and when he does it leaves you hot and cold all at once. You push up from your chair and stand up, and your heel catches on uneven ground. You stumble a bit before a hand is on your elbow, stabilizing you. 

“Thanks,” you say, glancing at Joel. His hand is so warm against your skin. It stays there for a beat before he moves it away. He nods at you. 

“You don’t have to do anythin’, by the way,” Joel says. “Dinner’s my treat.”

You feel something low simmer in your belly but before you can think of a response, he’s walking away. You catch Maria’s eye and she raises her brows. She’s a lawyer and you know nothing gets past her. Still, you shake your head and give her a smile. There’s nothing to say, really. You can’t figure Joel Miller out and you’re not going to try. 

You’re not sure how you made it from the fancy cocktail bar to Double Down Saloon but you’re too buzzed to ask. Everything around you feels warm and upbeat, the dim lighting of the bar creating a hazy glow. You’ve lost count of the number of drinks you’ve had if you’re being honest, but judging by Maria’s giggles and Tommy whispering in her ear, you think they might be the same. Even Joel seems relaxed, slouching a bit against the seat of the booth. His gaze is lidded as he drinks the last dredges of his whisky and you look away before you follow the line of his throat as he swallows. You’re drunk enough now to admit that as confusing as your interactions have been, Joel Miller is probably one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen and it’s not even the alcohol clouding your judgement. He’s so strong, with his broad shoulders and long, sturdy legs. His hair is messier now, some of the greyish brown curls falling against his forehead and his plush mouth is red from the ice in his drink.

“We’re going to get some air,” Tommy announces, cheeks flushed. It snaps you out of your thoughts and you’re grateful for the distraction. You look at Maria who seems just as flustered and you smirk, raising an eyebrow. She looks giddy as you scoot out of the booth, allowing them both to get up.

Joel grunts, nodding at his brother. Still a man of few words, you suppose.

“Have fun,” you say, voice teasing. 

“Are you okay here?” Maria asks, brows furrowed with concern.

“Of course I am,” you say, not wanting to ruin their plans. This was meant to be a romantic trip for them after all and you’re already rooming with Maria which means they won’t get much time for just themselves. “Now go. And use protection.”

You whisper the last part but it’s still loud enough for Tommy to hear and he looks sheepish. Maria elbows you, but her grin is bright. You watch as he leads her away, their hands tangled together. You glance at Joel to find him already looking at you.

“Having fun?” you ask. You can do this. You could make small talk with a wall really, with how talkative you can be. So you can make small talk with Joel too. Surely the drinks would have loosened his tongue a bit. 

“Sure,” Joel agrees. And that’s all he says. You scoff, standing up.

“I’m going to get another drink,” you say and he opens his mouth to speak but you’re already turning away, heading to the bar. You flag down the bartender and get another G&T, asking for a double this time. Everything is still hazy around you, the chatter of the other customers blending into ambient sound. Once you pay for the drink, you realize that you don’t want to go back to your booth and sit in silence with Joel. You’re too drunk to be quiet and you’re jittery from the buzz of it. You look around, spotting an empty pool table near the corner. Perfect. You’ll play pool with yourself. It’ll be grand. 

You down your G&T in two large gulps, ignoring the burn of it before making your way to the pool table. You have to hold onto the backs of the chairs as you meander past the tables, your footing slightly shaky. You reach for a pool stick, but it takes you a second to figure out which side needs to be pointed towards the table. It’s also at this moment that you realize that you’ve never actually played pool before. You focus, trying to angle the stick between your fingers but it’s so long. How are you even supposed to lay it on the table so you can strike the formation of the cues? Your confusion is cut short by a throat clearing. You look up and find yourself face to face with a man who looks about your age wearing a printed button up. His dark hair is slicked back and he has a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He smells of smoke and you do your best not to flinch. 

“Hey there,” he says. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you, still focused on the zebra pattern of his shirt. 

“Hi,” you say, standing up straight. The cue stick hangs limply in your hands. 

“You seem confused,” he says. “I can teach you to play.”

He steps forward, into your space and you don’t like it. You take a small step back, hoping it’s not obvious. You’ve dealt with enough insistent men in your life to know that moving too quickly doesn’t always end well. Something about fragile male egos. 

“I’m good, thank you though,” you say, voice pleasant. You give him a short smile, hoping that he takes the hint. Your legs feel shaky beneath you and you think maybe you shouldn’t have downed that last G&T so quickly. 

“Come on now. I can’t leave a pretty girl like you all by herself when she clearly needs a hand,” he says, and has the audacity to smile. It’s just as slimy as the rest of him. 

Even in your drunken state, you don’t appreciate the insinuation that you’re struggling. So maybe you don’t know how to play pool. That doesn’t mean you need some cocksure thirty something year old, probably-finance guy given the loafers he’s wearing, to teach you. 

“I’m good,” you say again. You don’t smile this time. His smile doesn’t falter and he takes another step forward. You stand your ground, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. 

“Let me at least buy you a drink, baby. I’m Levi,” he says and you want to grimace at the nickname. God, you forgot how much you hated being at bars because of men that can’t take a hint. 

“Think she said she’s good,” a voice interrupts and you look behind the guy – Levi you suppose – to find Joel. Levi turns around as well, eyes narrowed. 

“Don’t think it’s any of your business, man,” he says. 

“I’m not sayin’ it is. I’m just sayin’ that if a woman tells you to leave her alone, you should probably leave her alone,” Joel says. His jaw is clenched and he walks towards you, coming to stand to your right. 

“You know this old creep?” Levi asks and he says old like an insult. Like it’s the worst thing to be. You glance at Joel and watch his shoulder stiffen. Sure, you had been annoyed with his reticence earlier but you’re not going to let Levi, the actual creep, get away with being rude. Especially when you’re at least eight drinks in.

“Yeah, I do,” you say, sweetly. You wrap your arm around Joel’s, squeezing the muscle of his bicep and you catch his brows furrowing just as you lean up to press your mouth to his cheek. His stubble is rough under your glossy mouth. 

“Thanks for coming to the rescue, baby,” you say, voice soft so that it seems like it’s just for him even though you know Levi can hear every word. You catch Joel’s eye and watch as his mouth twitches before breaking out into a small smile. You haven’t seen him smile before. He has a dimple. 

“Anytime, darlin’,” Joel says, voice gruff. His dark eyes trace over your face. You can feel your ears get hotter under his gaze and you take that as your cue to look back at Levi who looks positively gobsmacked. 

“I’m sorry, man. Didn’t know she was taken,” Levi says before scurrying away. You scoff. If he was going to apologize to anyone for being a bother, it should have been you. You realize you’re still holding onto Joel’s arm and let go, taking a step to the side. 

“You’ve got no idea how to play pool, do ya?” Joel says and you’re surprised he’s making conversation, even if it is at the cost of critiquing your poor pool skills.

“I’m trying to learn,” you say, giving him a sharp look. To your shock, he smiles again and you watch the crows' feet by his eyes become more prominent. 

“I can teach ya, if you’d like,” he says. It’s different from the offer Levi made you. There’s no condescension here. He sounds genuine. You contemplate it for a handful of seconds, cocking your head to the side and giving him a once over. He holds himself more loosely now, his shoulders relaxed and his hands unclenched for a change. His tan skin is flushed pink in the dim glow of the bar and his eyes are glassy.  His hair is even messier now. He’s at least tipsy. No longer stone faced and quiet

“Are you drunk?” you ask and you can tell the question throws him off guard. 

“I’ve had a few,” Joel answers, the drawl of his accent stronger than it was before.

“So you’re drunk,” you say but you’re smiling a bit now too. You can really feel that last G&T now. 

“I’m too old to be drunk,” Joel says. It makes you laugh and his mouth twitches at the sound. 

You hold out the pool stick for him and he takes it, stepping up to the pool table. You watch the muscles in his back move under his shirt as he flattens himself so that the stick is angled towards the cues. 

“It’s easier to settle it against your thumb if you’ve never played before,” Joel explains, gesturing to his left hand. You watch, looking at his thick fingers wrapped around the stick. Your throat feels dry, all of the sudden. He continues speaking.

“Then, you have to pull it back, just like this,” he says and you watch as he pulls with his right arm. “And when you’re sure of yourself, you strike.”

You watch the cues fan out perfectly, two of the striped ones going into the pockets of the table. Joel stands up straight, handing the pool stick to you. 

“Come on now, your turn,” he says, voice gentler. You take the stick from him, lining it up the way you remember him showing you. It feels awkward in your grip, and you’re pretty sure your left hand is cramping from how stiffly you’re holding it against the pool table. You lean forward, focusing on the solid yellow cue. You move your arm back to strike only to have it completely miss the cue entirely. You end up nicking the side of the pool table and the stick falters in your grasp. Your face warms and you stand up, glancing at Joel and hoping he hasn’t noticed your blunder. Of course, he’s watching the entire thing. But there’s no derision on his face. Instead, he shakes his head.

“You’re holdin’ yourself too stiff,” he says. “Your hand’s gonna cramp if you don’t relax it.”

“I literally did exactly what you told me,” you say, only sounding slightly petulant. What can you say, alcohol brings out all the emotions in you. Joel steps up so he’s right behind you. The heat of him is like a wall and some silly, drunk part of you wants to lean back into it.

“May I?” he asks, the picture of southern manners. You’re not sure what exactly he’s asking permission for but you don’t really care. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. Then, his large hands are on you, angling your hips so they’re just against the pool table. They’re so large and warm, and the slinkiness of your dress does nothing to help. You can feel every point of contact between the two of you. You also feel the loss of them as he moves his hands away from your hips. He takes your left hand and settles it against the table, repositioning your fingers so that the stick rests against the divot between your thumb and index finger. 

“Relax,” he murmurs near your ear, so close to you that you can feel his breath against your neck. You do, letting your shoulders fall. “Attagirl.”

Something warm sparks in your belly. You let him reposition the stick once more. 

“Now, I want you to focus just on that yellow one over there okay? Forget about all the others. And let your right arm move smoothly, you don’t gotta force it. Can you do that for me?”

“Okay,” you agree. Your voice is breathier than before but you really can’t be held accountable for it when Joel Miller is talking you through playing pool. You move your right arm back, gently just like he instructed, your eyes focused on the yellow cue. You strike, and watch as the tip of the pool stick makes contact with the cue. It rolls and rolls, and then plops into the pocket of the pool table and you laugh, a joyful sound. You whip around, and Joel is right there, so close you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. 

“I did it,” you say, still smiling. You can feel your pulse fluttering in your chest.

“You did,” Joel agrees. He’s smiling too and it just makes you grin wider. 

“We should celebrate,” you say. You leave the pool stick at the table and reach for his arm, dragging him back towards the bar. Your footing is still shaky but you don’t really care. 

“Four shots of your best tequila,” you say to the bartender who pours them almost immediately. You give him your card. 

“Shoulda let me pay,” Joel says when you turn around. You watch him tuck his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans. 

“Think of this as a thank you,” you say, handing him a shot. You clink your glasses together before bringing the shot glass up to your mouth. Neither of you break eye contact as you down the drink and the warmth in your belly has sparked into something hotter. 

“Still not going to admit that you’re drunk?” you ask once the burn of the tequila has subsided. You know he is, with how loose his shoulders are and the soft smile that seems to stay put on his pink mouth. 

“What are the extra two shots for?” Joel asks, avoiding your question. His gaze is heavy. You can already feel the effect of the tequila, everything becoming hazier. It takes you a second to answer.

“For Maria and Tommy,” you say and then frown. “But they’re not here.”

Your brows furrow as you look around. 

“How long could they be?” you ask. Joel looks around too. He’s so tall that he can probably see over most of the people here. You watch him as he surveys the crowd. When he looks back at you, you don’t even try to hide the fact that you were staring. 

“I don’t think they’re here,” he says.

“What about the bathrooms?” you ask and he shakes his head.

“I was in there before I found you and that kid. There’s only one and it was empty. We oughta go find ‘em.”

You nod. You reach behind you for the two shots of tequila, and Joel raises a dark brow.

“Well we can’t let them go to waste,” you say and he huffs a laugh, taking from you. You both swallow down the shots quickly, and you don’t even feel the burn of it anymore. You follow Joel out the bar, his large frame clearing a path for you. The night is cold, unexpectedly so given how warm it had been when you had landed. Even the alcohol coursing through you isn’t helping the chill. You stumble on the sidewalk as a group of giggly women walk by, one of them wearing a fake veil and holding a rather phallic shaped lollipop. Joel catches you but his footing is a little shaky too. He must be drunker than he leads on. 

“It’s cold,” you complain. Suddenly, there’s a flask in front of you. You look up at Joel and all he does is shrug.

“It’s whisky,” he says and you groan. Of course it is. Still, you take it, lifting it to your mouth. You can stomach two sips before it’s too much and you hand it back to Joel who takes a long gulp from it. There’s a tiny part of your brain that’s thinking of how he placed his mouth right where yours had been. You shake your head, dispelling those thoughts. The whisky does help though, warming you up so you feel a flush of heat. 

“C’mon,” you say, tugging at Joel’s hand. You look around, trying to think of where Maria and Tommy might have snuck off to. You look around, but the lights are so distracting. Everything is so bright and so glamorous. You blink a few times, trying to focus. You spot something in the distance, bright white and red with twinkling lights. There. It’s calling to you.

“That way,” you say, pointing. Joel squints. You tug on his arm again, and begin to walk. He follows you, surprisingly docile. 

“Where are you takin’ us?” Joel asks but he doesn’t sound annoyed. If anything, it’s mostly curious. 

“I think they’re there,” you say, pointing vaguely to the white structure. You don’t know what it is but it’s calling to you. Your gut instinct has always been right. 

“Really?” Joel asks, sounding amused. You didn’t even realize you were speaking out loud. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m always right. Always.”

“Except when it comes to playin’ pool, I suppose,” he teases, voice warm. 

“No one’s perfect,” you say. 

Suddenly, you feel ridiculous, arm in arm with Joel Miller who you had spent most of the day being annoyed with but also vaguely attracted to and looking for your best friend in Las Vegas. You’re jobless too and drunk as a skunk. It makes you giggle, once, twice and then you’re full on laughing. You clutch your stomach, leaning forward. You can feel tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. When you open them, Joel’s watching you, an amused twitch to his lips. He takes another swig of the whisky before offering it to you. You don’t take it from him, instead leaning forward so that your mouth is on the edge of the flask, right where his was. Your eyes drift up to meet his own and his jaw clenches. He tilts the flask towards you and you feel the liquid flow down your throat. He watches you the entire time, his dark gaze never leaving your eyes. It’s only when you’re done swallowing that he moves the flask away.

“I’m pretty drunk,” Joel admits once he’s put his now empty flask away. It breaks the tension from the moment before. You grin, feeling like you won something. His eyes are glassy as he watches you, cheeks flushed a soft pink. 

“Finally,” you say. “God, and here I thought you’d never admit it.”

Joel shrugs. His arm is still hooked around yours and your whole right side of your body is warm. 

“Since we’re admittin’ to not bein’ perfect,” Joel says and you laugh. You tug him with you as you head towards the white building. You both stagger in turns, each of you helping to keep the other upright. As you approach the building, you still can’t make out what it is. Your vision is kind of blurry and when you look at Joel, he’s squinting at the sign. You guess he doesn’t know either. 

“I think they’re in there,” you say. “Gut feeling.”

“You already said that,” Joel asks, looking down at you but his voice isn’t sharp the way it usually is. He sounds amused. You nod, resolute. 

“Because I’m certain,” you say, trying to sound serious. Your words feel heavy as does your tongue. You wonder if Joel feels the same way too. “How many drinks did you have?” you ask, suddenly curious. 

“Probably a lot,” Joel says, his accent honey thick and with a slight slur. “Stopped countin’ after my fifth whisky if I’m bein’ honest with you. And that was at dinner.”

“Okay wow, you’re definitely drunker than me,” you say, and are you talking slower? Maybe but it seems like Joel is as well so it’s probably okay. “Let me do the talking when we go in there okay? We have to find Maria.”

“And Tommy,” Joel adds. Right. Tommy. Joel’s brother. You nearly forgot.

You nod, eyes wide. 

“And Tommy,” you agree. 

You push the doors of the building open, pulling Joel inside with you. 

Something is buzzing near your head. It won’t stop and you think it might be a form of torture. Your head throbs as you squint your eyes open. Your mouth tastes like something died inside of it. You lift your head to find your phone buzzing against the side table. You reach towards it.

“Hello?” you say but it sounds more like a croak. You’re parched.

“There’s a bottle of water right by your phone,” Maria answers at the other end of the line. You glance up to find that she’s right. Of course she is. 

“How’d you know that?” you ask, wincing as you feel another throb in your head. 

“Because I left it there,” she says, voice amused. “Is Joel up?”

Your brows furrow and you groan when it makes your head hurt again. 

“Fuck,” you say. “I don’t know. How would I know?”

“Babe,” Maria says, voice purposely calm. “I’m going to need you to look to your left.”

Slowly, you do, making sure not to move too much. You come face to face with Joel, who’s fast asleep. His whole face is relaxed and his mouth is slightly ajar. There’s a pillow crease on his cheek and his hair is sticking up in ten different directions, the curls matted near the base of his head.

“Oh my god,” you say. “Maria. What happened?” 

You must have spoken too loudly because Joel makes a noise, before his brows furrow. You look away, unable to meet his eyes. 

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. Tommy and I couldn’t find either of you last night and eventually we went back to check the hotel to find the two of you passed out in our room.” Maria says and you had momentarily forgotten that you were on the phone with her. You chance a glance back at Joel and his eyes are open now, his brows even more furrowed. He looks as confused as you feel. 

“Maria, I’ll call you back okay?” you say. Another wave of nausea passes through you and you take a deep breath. 

“Fuck,” Joel says, pressing the heels of his palm into his eyes. “My head’s splittin’.”

His voice is even gruffer than it usually is. 

“Do you remember anything?” you ask, sitting up. You look down and sigh in relief to find that you’re still wearing your dress and when you glance at Joel you can see that he’s still in his outfit from the night before too, save for shoes. That’s a good sign. At least you most likely didn’t sleep with your best friend’s boyfriend’s older brother the first time you met him. There’s bad decisions and then there’s bad decisions.

“Last thing I remember is teachin’ you pool and then maybe drinkin’ some more,” Joel says. He sits up as well, looking around. For what, you don’t know. 

“Seen my phone?” he asks and you shake your head, flinching when it brings on a wave of pain. You reach for the bottle of water, sipping it slowly to not upset your stomach any further. You watch Joel stand up slowly, his knees creaking with the movement. He groans, low and pained. 

“God, I’m never drinkin’ again,” he says and you hum in agreement. He’s chattier than you expect him to be, hungover and grouchy. 

You slowly stand up too, holding onto the bed frame for support. You look around the hotel room and it’s almost exactly as you and Maria have left it except for your heels and Joel’s shoes which are strewn across the floor. You both must have flung them off when you got in. You look around for Joel’s phone, but can’t seem to find it. It’s then that you hear shuffling and you look back around to find Joel, with a crumpled sheet of paper in his hands. He’s squinting at it, brows furrowed. Then, his face drops and he looks like he might be sick.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he says, the word so sharp that you flinch. He sounds beyond upset. 

“What?” you say, a pit of anxiety forming in your stomach. You make your way to the other side of the bed, where he stands stock still. When you look over his shoulder, the pit in your stomach suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds and blood rushes to your ears. 

There, in big, black cursive are the words Certificate of Marriage printed at the top of the page. You don’t even think, reaching for the paper and snatching it from him. You can feel your heart racing, rattling wildly against your ribcage. At the bottom of the paper are your and Joel’s full names, and underneath that, your signatures in red ink. You look up at him and you’re certain your shock mirrors his own. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. 

(Special Note: Feel free to check out my Haunted Din playlist, made to accompany this fic!)

Please note trigger warnings attached to chapters

Chapter 1: Cursed

Chapter 2: Chased

Chapter 3: Caught

Endings:

Ending One- Freed (Good ending) <- Read after Chapter 2

Ending Two: Slain (Bad Ending) <- Read after Chapter 3

Ending Three: Claimed (True Ending) <- Read after Chapter 3

Tag List:

The door is open. You’re not sure if it’s an escape or a trap. 

“I never asked for any of this!” 

They’ll find you eventually but right now, all you can do is hide and listen. 

“How much more do I have to give before you love me?” 

There is no rest here as you’re suffocated in their embrace. 

“You said you wanted to get away from it all, didn’t you?” 

This place has everything you need, but nothing you want. 

“I made it special. Just for you.” 

You hear the life above but they can’t hear you. You dream of it but they could never imagine a creature as pathetic as you. 

“I told you to wear that dress or nothing at all.” 

The memories fade with each day as these walls close out the life you had before. 

“No one else can keep you safe.” “But who will save me from you?” 

The smell of pollen reminds you of what you’ve forgotten; the taste of fresh air, the feel of grass beneath your feet, the sight of the sky. 

“How can you be so ungrateful?” 

The ring on your finger bites into your flesh as you try to pull it off, the angled teeth making sure you can never remove it. 

“Everyone needs a home and I made us the perfect one.” 

When your mother said you’d find your person one day, you never imagined someone like them. 

“I never wanted to hurt you but the world would do worse if you ever got out.” 

You stare at the dishwater as your hands move mechanically beneath the suds. Sometimes you think of putting your head under. 

You tippptoed up the porch, box tucked in your arms like a sacred offering, hammering with both guilt and joy.

Joel was already waiting at the door.

Grey t shirt, scowl in place, arms crossed. Classic 'i heard that truck the second it turned on the gravel" stance.

"Tell me that ain't what I think it is," he said flatly.

You gave him your sweetest smile. "They're babies, Joel."

"That's a box of chickens."

"Six chickens," you clarified, as if that helped. "All hens. No roosters. Perfectly quiet. Very cute."

He blinked.

"You told me you were goin' for birdseed."

"I did get birdseed!" You nudged the brown paper bag with your foot. "For these bjrde. So technically -"

"You brought livestock into our house, honey."

"They're babies," you repeated, like that solved everything. "Little peeping marshmallows." You carefully opened the top of the box to show him. Six fluffy chicks blinked up at you, golden and downy and completely unaware of the tension in the room..

Joel stared into the box like it might explode.

"They're not even outside animals yet," you said quickly. "They'll need a warm crate inside for a few weeks. I'll set it up in the laundry room."

"So we're raisin' birds in the same place I wash my jeans?"

"They won't poop on your jeans."

"You sure?"

You hesitated.

Joel exhaled. "I should've known this would happen the second you walked into that damn sore in overalls and a Pinterest board..."

~~~

By the time evening fell, the chicks were tucked happily in a cozy crate under a heat lamp, and Joel had retreated to the porch with a beer and a deep sigh of resignation.

You joined him not long after, settling into the chair beside him, hands still smelling faintly like chick feed and sawdust.

He gave you a side glance.

"You love those damn birds already."

"Of course I do. They're babies, Joel. They chirp when I talk to them."

"You talked to 'em for twenty minutes."

"One of them leaned her name."

Joel took a sip of his beer, mumbling, "Jesus Christ..." But hisjps twitched in amusement. You leaned your head on his shoude. "You'llove them eventually."

"I won't."

"You will. You're gonna name them and build them a coop and everything."

"I'm not building no chicken castle."

You patted his thigh affectionately. "We'll see."

~~~

The next morning you were halfway through breakfast when a wild screech echoed from down the hallway, followed by a crash and a very loud southern:

"What the hell is that doin' in the shower?!"

You dropped your toast and sprinted to the bathroom.

There, stood a very bold, very unbothered chick, peeping wildly, wet feet leaving muddy prints on the porcelain edge of the tub.

Joel was half naked, dripping, holding the shower curtainike a shield,face somewhere between exasperated rage and absolute disbelief. "WHY is there a chicken in the shower??"

You clapped ahand over your mouth to keep from laughing. "Oh my god, peaches!"

"Peaches?! You named it?"

"Shes adventurous!'

Joel looked at the chick, then at you, then at the chick.

"She watched me get in the damn shower. Then she got in with me."

You stepped forward, scooping peaches into your hands like a contritle toddler. "She must've hopped out of the crate, I swear I closed the lid!" Joel wiped a hand down his wed face. "That he's saw me naked."

You giggled. "So what?? You're handsome."

Joel gave you warning glare.

~~~

That night,

Joel sat in the Livingroom, reading a manual on chicken coops, you passed by holding peaches, "she apologized for the shower thing." You said sweetly.

Joel didn't look up. "Tell her she's grounded."

"You're such a good chicken dad,"

"I'm not their dad. I'm their victim."

You leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Sure, daddy."

He glared. "Don't."

You winked and walked away, Barbara peeping softly.

Soon you and joel sat on the back porch with coke and beer respectively, watching the hens peck lazily in the grass. Joel sighed, his arm around your shoulders.

"They're a menace."

"They're our girls."

"You spoil 'em more than you spoil me."

"They'll lay breakfast. You just steal the covers."

He smirked. "They don't make you scream my name in the middle of the night."

You choked on your coke. "Joel! The chickens are right there.."

“How did you manage to get your hands on all these ingredients?” you ask as you shuffle around the small kitchen gathering bowls and utensils.

“I had some good stuff to trade. And once I told Seth what it was for he was pretty understandin’.”

“I love that you want to do this for her. Now put on your apron.”

You hold the frilly material at his chest and wait. He stares at it then at you.

“You promised,” you smile.

He huffs out something unintelligible and takes it, continuing to grumble as he tries to figure out how to put it on.

Finally, you help, flattening it by running your hands down his chest and grabbing the ties, opting to stay at this front while you reach behind him to tie a neat bow. The whole time his breath is caught in his throat and when you lean in close he takes a quiet inhale, closing his eyes and revering in your scent.

“There,” you say as you pull back. “If only Ellie could see you now.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “If only.”

An hour later with the countertop and the both of you dusted with flour, you admire the stacked cake, still warm from the oven.

“It smells real good,” he says.

“Let’s hope it tastes just as good,” you reply. “We have to let it cool before we frost it.”

You grab the bowl of frosting and shove it at him. “Keep mixing this.”

He does as you say and you start to clear off the kitchen island but when you hear the smack of his lips you see him look up guiltily with half his finger stuck in the bowl.

“It’s good,” he mumbles.

“Oh yeah,” you ask with a smirk as you step into his space and swipe your finger through the sugary goodness.

His eyes track the movement, focused and intense as you bring your finger to your lips and start to lick the frosting off.

“It is,” you say quietly, noting how his eyes linger on your mouth. “We did good.”

He puts the bowl down and reaches up with his thumb, swiping it gently across the corner of your mouth. He then lifts it to his own lips and licks the smidge of frosting off.

“Mm hm,” he agrees. “Delicious.”

You sway slightly on your feet, and his hand instinctively drops to your waist to steady you. You lean in closer as he slides his arm more securely around you.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For?” you ask, hoping you don’t sound too breathless.

Then it happens. His big arm tightens, and the knuckles of his free hand brush your cheek. The heat in his eyes makes your stomach clench with anticipation, and warmth spreads across your chest as he dips his head, his breath tickling your lips.

“Helpin’ me,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing yours with the bump of his nose.

The front door flies open, and you startle in his arms, clinging to his shoulders.

“What the fuck?” Ellie says with a smile. “Were you about to fucking kiss her?” she asks, looking at Joel with her eyebrows practically in her hair. “Shit.”

“That’s a lot of curses for one greeting,” you giggle, hiding your face in Joel’s neck.

“Is this for me?” Ellie says, not missing a beat and sticking half her hand in the frosting bowl while she eyes the cake.

“HEY NOW!” Joel says, carefully releasing you with a reluctant look. “That’s supposed to be a surprise!”

“It tastes soooo good,” Ellie croons with her eyes closed. “You made this?”

She pins Joel with an incredulous look.

“He did,” you step in and say. “He did most of the work, and he’s right…it’s a surprise that we’re not finished with!”

“Ok, ok,” Ellie relents, stepping away but not before one more taste of frosting. “I’ll leave you to it.”

She slides up next to Joel and elbows him hard. “Go for it killer. Looks like she was into it.”

With that she walks off and slams the door.

Joel scoffs and rubs his hand over his face, finally looking at you with an exasperated expression.

“Damn kid.”

“It’ll still be a surprise once we decorate it,” you tell him. “Don’t worry.”

You go to check on the cake, hoping it’s cool, but you’re not paying attention, and your foot catches on the small rug by the sink and in the next second you’re careening forward, arms flapping to try and catch your balance.

You hear Joel swear and then feel a thick, strong hand grab your arm and jerk you upright. Before you can blink he has you in his arms and pressed against the countertop, barely breathing. There’s less than an inch of space between you, his firm hand still wrapped around your arm and his heat impossible to escape.

He smells so intense, like warm sandalwood with a hint of sugar. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and his gaze drops to your mouth. His breath is heavy, and it falls across your lips until you can’t think past the urge to let him devour you.

You get one quick glance at the heat in his eyes when he looks up at you again and then his lips slam into yours with a groan erupting from his chest. His fingers slide up your arm, finding their way to the back of your neck so he can tip your face back with a pull, deepening the kiss.

You open for him, pressing yourself as close as possible and his kiss comes hotter than before, hungry, and so, so relentless. His hips start to grind, finding a rhythm while his hands and fingers caress every inch of you he can reach, like he has to own it.

Your hands are a tease, lightly tracing his shoulders before sliding up the back of his neck and into his hair. You meet the rhythm of his hips, nibbling his bottom lip and then soothing it with your tongue.

A whisper of your name leaves his mouth, and you slide a hand down his chest, your palm flattening against the bulge in his jeans. You rub your hand up and down, hard, and soft and then slide it away along his chest before letting it slowly fall to tease him again.

“Fuck sugar,” he groans. “I’m not made of endless patience.”

You giggle but don’t stop, never giving him any more than the brush of your palm and the roll of your hips.

“Drivin’ me crazy,” he warns in a growled murmur.

“We have a cake to finish.” You smirk against his mouth then move across his jaw and down his neck.

A small hiss of pleasure leaves his lips, and he pulls you closer, removing your hand from between his legs while you were still gingerly stroking him.

Your ass hits the counter, clattering bowls and utensils haphazardly pushed out of the way as your legs spread and he settles between them.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispers as his fingers caress your cheek then smooth down the column your neck to rest with a light hold around your throat.

“Then show me,” you tell him.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART ONE | TERMS AND CONDITIONS

The restaurant is fairly quiet, the music playing in the back is dim. It's the kind of place that takes months to get into, but one mention of his name and his table for two is ready in an hour. It's a perfect setting for romance, for love 

Except Harry Castillo doesn't believe in love.

Not at his age. 

He couldn't, not after her.

Melissa. The girl he'd been slavishly devoted to his entire college experience. The one he overheard at a frat party months before graduation calling him pint-sized to a group of tittering girls. 

"But the sex is decent and he's loaded, so I'll put up with him." 

Put up with him. Like he was an annoying pet. He broke up with her that night, tears in his eyes, a hole in his heart and the engagement ring from his mother still in his pocket. 

When he told his younger brother the next morning over coffee at his apartment he'd just shrugged. 

"That's how it is for guys like us." 

And that was supposed to be a comfort? How? 

And as his date, a thirty year old art curator sits across from him now, rambling on about the things she'd seen recently at work, the people she'd talked to, the daily minutia of her life, Harry finds his attention drifting. 

Not to anyone in particular, that isn't his way of operating. He'd always been a one woman man his whole life. Relentlessly monogamous. But he's bored, the conversation manufactured as if she's reading from cue cards. 

His mind drifts to the kitchen with Lucy, the conversation, the admittance that he didn't think he was capable of love. 

"You will. It'll be easy," Lucy had said. 

This doesn't feel easy. But then again what did Lucy know? She didn't even know what she wanted. He shifts in his seat when he hears his name being gently cooed by the girl across from him. 

"Pardon?"

She fingers the stem of her wine glass anxiously. She's clearly worried she's doing something wrong. 

"I asked if you've been using Adore for long?" 

"I've never actually used a dating service before," Harry replies politely. "You're my first." 

Her cheeks tinge pink, eyes downcast, the very picture of demure supplication.  

"Hopefully your last," she says with a gentle smile. 

She's very soft. Everything from the fabric of her clothing to her voice is soft. 

He offers a low chuckle, a rich sound. He knows that he's a catch, a proclaimed "unicorn" from his matchmaker at Adore. He knows the looks he gets aren't just for looks, but for his sizeable bank account. 

And his mother has been very firm. She wants him to marry and he hates to disappoint her. 

"You're almost fifty, Harry. It's inappropriate to be single at this age." 

The woman across from him is traditionally beautiful, but what woman isn't at thirty? She has smooth unblemished skin, light voice. Botox at the forehead, lips plump from injections. 

It's all tastefully done but what remains is nothing of true interest, nothing that sets her apart from the millions of women he sees in New York every day. 

But she's smart, she's accomplished, she comes from money, she'd understand his world. 

"Would you like a second date?" He asks as he walks her to her front door later that night. 

His driver is idling at the curb, keeping the car warm against the New York autumn chill. 

She beams at him, eyes sparkling. 

"I would love that."

"He's perfect."

"No one is perfect, Gemma,” you remind her gently. Everything you do with Gemma is gentle because she's a gentle creature, long limbed, big dark blue eyes, auburn hair, like a doe come to life. "He's just a man." 

"A perfect man," she swoons, coming to stand opposite your desk. "Rich, six feet, amazing hair and body. Smart, kind." 

"And he's straight?"

"Ha ha." 

You smirk before going back to photographing the small miniature portrait in front of you on the desk. A new acquisition, a piece from the 1700's. A coup for the gallery. 

As the art preserver here at The Chapel Gallery you work in the back rooms of the gallery, in a part of the building the visitors never see. Back here the light is colder, whiter, and everything smells faintly of varnish, aging wood, and linen.

The floor is concrete, scuffed from decades of furniture being dragged across it. You’ve stopped noticing. There’s a tall window, but it’s been treated with a UV filter that dulls the sun to a diffused gray-blue haze. Still, it’s enough.

 You like the quiet of it. The way it catches in the dust floating over a stretched canvas. The hush. Your own breathing. The gentle hum of the fume extractor overhead.

Gemma is the exception. Bouncy, sweet, colorful. You like her in your space. Gemma showed up on her first day in heels too loud for the old gallery floors, holding a latte and a dozen questions about framing protocols, and you liked her immediately for admitting she could never do your job. There was respect in her voice when she said it. 

You'd bonded immediately over a love of Henry Ossawa Tanner and ethnical restoration. You moved quickly to lunches together, and then drinks after work and then a casual friendship that you appreciate in a city that feels cold. She loves to visit you in this space bringing coffee or baked goods, the two of you talking about everything from Rembrandt to The Real Housewives. 

And now she stands in front of you, phone in hand showing you a picture from what you can only assume is Google. 

"Isn't he handsome?" 

He looks like any other rich guy to you. They all start to blend into a mix of fancy watches and stiff hair after a while. 

"Sure." 

Your tools rest in their tray; scalpels in their tray, cotton swabs in jars, solvents labeled in your handwriting. Everything with its place. Everything under control. The paintings arrive with their wounds and histories, and you restore them with a loving hand. 

Gemma doesn’t interrupt, not exactly, but her presence changes the air. She’s lighter, glossier somehow. You hear the quick staccato of her heels before you see her. Always rehearsing the next exhibit, the next acquisition, the next donor she’ll have to charm.

 Her voice echoes through the storage corridor when she’s on a call, naming names you don’t recognize. Its collectors, old professors, gallery patrons who write checks large enough to get their opinions framed.

You prefer the paintings because they don’t perform. They don’t flatter. They don’t lie about what time has done to them.

Sometimes she asks what you think of a piece. You don’t always answer. When you do, she listens in that serious way of hers, her lips slightly parted, like she's memorizing the shape of your opinion even if she’s already decided on hers. It works, mostly. You restore. She sells and curates.

You move behind the canvas while she moves in front of it.

"What does he do?"

"Private equity." 

You hold in a groan. He's just like every other guy she's dated. All rich, all handsome, all in finance and all the most boring men on the planet. You can feel her eyes still on you and you know what she's going to say before she says it. You brace yourself. 

"When are you going to try dating again?"

"Never."

Your sweet, hopelessly optimistic co-worker leans on your work table, big eyes sad. "The divorce was six years ago. When are you going to try again?"

"When men stop being assholes so..." you put on a faux pondering look, "never?" 

She giggles, a bit nervous about her date, a bit tickled by your seriousness. "Don't you miss sex?"

You look over at her innocent face, amused. You're only a few years older than her but you feel like you've lived a lifetime in comparison. 

"I have sex, Gem. Sex isn't the issue. It's living with a man that doesn't appeal to me. And I'm not gay, though I wish I was, so romance isn't really an option anymore." 

You weren't always this way when it came to love. But it was a classic case of Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy and girl get married. Boy cheats. Boy gets girl new pregnant. Girl moves on. 

You wish it wasn't such a fucking cliché. 

You think of you phone in your pocket. The message from earlier. You scowl. Gemma's phone beeps and she swipes to open the message, her face breaking into a beam. 

"He's here," she says, going on her tiptoes and bouncing. "He's coming down here to get me! You can see him!" 

She looks completely elated and there's a small, secret part of you that misses that. The excitement of a first date. Just then a gurgle sounds and she gets a strange look on her face, blanching before placing a palm over her stomach. 

"Oh fuck." 

Gemma has what she calls a reactive stomach. Which basically means that she has to aggressively empty her bowels when she gets anxious. 

"I'll tell him you're freshening up," you tell her, making a shooing motion. She casts you a thankful look before rushing off to the loo. 

You shake your head, mouth curled into a smile. She is ridiculous at times but you really do adore her. You go back to photographing the miniature portrait, excited to get to work on bringing the original color back from underneath all that grime.

The sound of footsteps grabs your attention. You glance up to see a tall man with dark wave hair that curls under his ears and large expressive eyes. He's dressed well and in one arm holds a large bouquet of pale yellow roses. 

"Hello." 

He smiles politely at you, plump lips curling under a perfectly manicured beard.

Harry Castillo. 

"Gemma just went to freshen up," you tell him with a motion to one of the desk chairs. "She'll be back any second."

"Great." 

He doesn't move to the chair. Instead he moves deeper into your workroom, eyes casting from one piece to the next. He places the bouquet onto one of the empty tables before surveying the exhibit you just finished restoring. 

He stops in front of a small, clay pot, clearly taken with it. Despite it being behind protected glass you wince when his face nears it.

"Do you mind stepping back from the artifacts? Everything here is incredibly delicate." 

Harry nods unbothered, hands behind his back. "Understood." 

He finds himself intrigued by what you're photographing with such focus. His legs carry him to the side of your desk. You're so invested in the task at hand you don't even hear him near. 

"Rosalba Carriera." 

You almost drop the camera. "What?"

"That's a Rosalba Carriera isn't it?" Harry looks puzzled. "I'm sure of it. My family owns several." 

You hold in a scoff of disgust. Of course his family would buy up art and keep it for themselves. You stare over your shoulder at him, your expression cold. Men like this make you want to scream. Money, looks, arrogance. He has it all in spades. 

"I love pastel painting," Harry continues, thrown off by your muted response.

He thought you'd warm to him and his art knowledge. He's been told he's charismatic, but the longer you derisively stare at him the more he's concerned he's been lied to all his life. You're like a cat; back arched, claws extended. Everything about you screams back off and so he does, eyes trained on yours. 

"Yes," you finally offer when he stands on the opposite side of your workspace. "It is a Rosalba Carriera. One of her earliest." 

Harry can see that the entire portrait is grimy with age. The edges torn in spots. He can't imagine taking something like that and making it beautiful again. 

"Restoration and preservation seems like such tedious work," Harry hums. 

He winces when he sees your jaw tic. He said the wrong thing. Fuck. Tedious wasn't the word he wanted to use. He'd meant labor intensive and exhausting with having so many hours spent over such detailed pieces. 

But he feels out of his element, trying to appear in control of the conversation. But the way your eyes dig into him has him feeling exposed. 

You don't even lower your camera when you reply. 

"No more tedious than telling rich people how to spend their money." 

That's an arrow to the gut. Despite being good at his job there is always the lingering thought that what he does is frivolous. That all the money in the world can't make him a good person. 

He can change his legs, his clothes, his home, but at the end of the day he's still that awkward boy overhearing his girlfriend saying she put up with him.

You put him back there, back to the party that smelled of stale beer and hairspray. The night his life changed, where he changed, where he saw the ugliness in perfection. 

And for that, he immediately dislikes you. 

He frowns, irritated by this serious woman behind the desk and the way she turns her attention back to the portrait, as if he's nothing, as if he's not even good enough to glance at. 

You want him gone. He wants to be gone. 

"I'm ready," Gemma announces with a flustered laugh, coming around the corner in her flouncy dress. You and Harry exhale in relief. 

"Great," Harry says extending an elbow. He can't wait to escape this suffocating space. 

He can't wait to be away from you

Your apartment is on the smaller side, but it does its job. You make decent money. Not enough for some penthouse at the top of a skyscraper but it's got a cozy vibe, something that makes you feel settled. It's a third floor walk up and by the end of the day you're usually exhausted. 

Above everything, you love that it's yours. You picked the paint, the decor, the pillows. Every part of this space is you. 

Not him.

You toss your bag onto the hook by the door and start the toaster oven. You worked late and you have a real craving for that shitty lasagna from the supermarket that you grew up on. 

You grab it from the freezer, Popping ventilation holes into the plastic and pop it into the oven. As you set the timer and heat you laugh to yourself when you realize how different your meal is from Gemma's this evening. She's probably throwing back lobster and farm to table veal. 

With Harry.

What a stupid fucking name. 

You can't help but be annoyed by his presence today, but if you're honest your bad mood started this morning at work after receiving a text from an old friend. Well, not a friend deal, more and emotional vulture. 

I hope you're doing okay. 

Huh? 

I saw the pregnancy announcement on J's timeline. I'm so sorry hun xx

You hadn't even bothered writing back. 

Harry had just been an additional irritant. Bad place bad time. Reminding you of the lifestyle Jarrod always aspired to.  

You used to own a nice place outside Manhattan with your ex-husband Jarrod. A place with quiet neighbours and tall ceilings. A place that he furnished saying that he had an eye for home design. 

He made decent money, but it was never enough. You both worked and he loved to live lavishly. When he found out about your secret account that has been the beginning of the end. 

And the irony is his new wife doesn't even work. But she's young and shiny and maybe that's what he really wanted all along, he just wasn't honest about it. 

But if you're honest you were checked out that last year of your marriage. How could you forgive him after his reaction to-

The ding of the oven catches your attention. You go to pull out the lasagna, hissing when the lip of the grill catches your wrist and the entire container goes toppling over onto the floor. 

Sauce pools over the mushed meal of cheese and pasta. You swear, throwing the pan into the sink with a frustrated cry. 

Today fucking sucks. 

Dinner is delicious. Better than the last time Harry was here with Lucy. Or the time before with Bianca. Or the time before that with Gretchen. It's his favorite steak house and he always rents the back room out when he dines here. It's quieter that way, the service more dedicated. 

Harry watches his date delicately eating her salad. But his mind is still back in that gallery basement, back on the woman who irritated him. 

What was her problem?

Harry dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He speaks lightly, eyes down as he adjusts his cuff. 

"I'm glad we could do this again." 

"Me too." 

Gemma stares at him with the practised air of a woman that was born beautiful, who went to an Ivy League, who comes from money and expects the best. 

She's a good match. And he's so tired of looking. 

"Tell me more about your job," he insists after another sip of wine. 

"It's not very glamorous," she replies sweetly. Again that picture of demure innocence that's starting to grate on him. "Not like your job." 

"I assure you private equity is pretty dull." 

"I suppose it's similar to your job in that we both act as bridges between consumer and creator. But I've taken on some curating as well. That's my real passion. I love it because it's shaping what people experience when they walk into a gallery or museum."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Gemma looks delighted by that response, her eyes sweeping across his forearm, watching the gold ring he wears tapping against the glass. 

"I guess not. Right now I’m working on curating a show on post-war artists who were overshadowed in their time, mostly women and artists of colour. It's the new piece my co-worker is photographing. She'll be busy pouring over that for the next few months." 

Harry nods, not particularly interested in hearing more about you. But Gemma is on a roll, comfortable with the topic of you since nothing else is coming to mind.

“I'm worked about the funding though,” she says, delicately spearing a piece of endive, “my co-worker says not to worry about it, but I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”

Harry nods, smiling with practised warmth. The kind of smile reserved for clients and vaguely familiar faces at weddings. 

“Your co-worker seems…” he lets it drift, then adds almost idly, “focused.”

Gemma nods, chewing quietly. “She is. Especially when a new piece comes in. She’s been handling a lot lately. We lost funding for her assistant, so she’s doing everything herself.”

“That sounds unsustainable.”

“She doesn’t really complain,” Gemma says, smoothing her napkin. “But I think it’s been wearing on her. She hides it well.”

“She’s lucky to have you, then.”

Gemma smiles at that, pleased by the compliment, even if it’s only adjacent.

“She’d never say it, but I think she appreciates the support.”

Harry feigns a moment of thought, fingers absently trailing the stem of his wineglass. He can't agree. You seemed perfectly passionate enough to insult him the second after meeting him. 

“She was a bit aloof,” he murmurs. 

Gemma gives a small, quick laugh. “She’s not always like that. She’s very funny, very blunt. She just doesn’t warm up to people easily. Especially not people who act like...well....”

She catches herself and Harry lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Act like what?”

“Like they own the room.”

He smirks. “Guilty, I suppose.”

“No,” Gemma says quickly, almost apologetic. “Not you exactly. It's just, she’s careful with new people.”

Harry leans in slightly, voice low. “You two are close?”

Gemma lowers her eyes, just for a second. “We work well together. She’s so funny and so brilliant. And yeah, a little intense. But she makes the gallery better.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. There’s something in the way Gemma speaks about you. Respect, yes, but also a sort of nervous admiration. He files that away.

“And she said not to worry?” he prompts gently, circling back.

“Mhm,” Gemma says, dabbing the corner of her mouth. “She always says that. About donors, pieces, my love life…” she trails off, laughing a little.

“Oh?”

“She doesn’t really believe in matchmaking,” Gemma adds. "Honestly, I don't think she believes in romance anymore full stop. But she told me that worrying will just make it worse and that I should enjoy the ride." 

That doesn't surprise Harry in the least. The scraps of information presented to him about you paint the picture of a woman invested in her work. He saw no wedding ring and judging by the late hour he came to retrieve Gemma and you working away, he can only surmise that you likely don't have a partner waiting at home. 

"But I worry about her sometimes. She hasn't dated anyone since her divorce and it's like she's given up." 

Harry lifts his glass, his voice flat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, gently setting hers down. “I worry that she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I mean she told me as much. Since her divorce, it’s all been very cynical.”

That catches. Just for a second. Something shifts behind Harry’s expression. It's something small, almost imperceptible. But Gemma, watching, mistakes it for amusement.

“She calls dating a mutual performance of delusion,’” she adds with a grin, hoping he’ll laugh.

He doesn’t. Not really. He smiles, but it’s distant. His fingers are lightly tapping the base of his wine glass. “She said that?”

“Mhm.”

“And what do you think?”

Gemma blinks, caught off-guard. “I think she’s been hurt. And when people get hurt badly enough, they try to feel superior to what they’ve lost.”

Harry nods, but he’s not really nodding. His mind’s moved. You’re in it again, your sharp voice, the disinterest that wasn’t just rudeness, but something colder. Something he recognizes in himself under all the pretense. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

Gemma brightens slightly, mistaking it for approval of her. “But I still believe in something lasting. I mean, why else go to all this trouble, right?”

He looks back at her, as though just now returning to the conversation.

“Right,” he says, softly.

As if just realizing they've devoted the last ten minutes of their date to talk about her co-worker, Gemma turns coy. 

"But enough about that. Tell me, what is your family like? You have a brother, any other siblings?"

Harry smiles again, this time slower. Something has become very clear to him and like anyone working in private equity he knows he needs to conduct a little due diligence before moving forward. 

"Everything was delicious, the most delicious steak I've ever eaten!" 

It’s three days later and Gemma is regaling you with her latest Harry saga and you're fighting to show even passive interest. The two of you are having coffee at the cafe across from the gallery, your favorite place to relax. 

"He kissed my hand. My hand! Like something out of a romance novel." 

"Cute." 

"And he was so sweet; he took me to Central Park and did the whole carriage ride thing." 

"Fun." 

"Didn't you think he was handsome?"

"Sure." 

You offer the odd word, knowing that she's barely even registered you're there. To her you're just a willing audience 

You barely registered the man if you're honest. He seemed haughty, walking around your workplace as if he owned it. 

"And he really knows his artwork," Gemma continues. "I didn't expect someone in finance to be so knowledgeable about more obscure artists."

"Mhm." 

You remember his tailored presence, the faint perfume of old money and self-assurance. The way he looked at you like not with interest, but a kind of calculation.

"He rented out the whole back of the restaurant. We had private servers, a special menu." She's practically floating. 

"So he's new money," you say acerbically. It comes out more bitter than anticipated. "Old money is quiet, new money is loud."

"For your information he is old money," she says giving you a pointed look. "His parents started the family firm."

"So he didn't even earn his money or position himself."

"Obviously there's no winning with you today. Why are you being so shitty about him?"Gemma asks, cheeks pinking in irritation. 

'I'm sorry," you answer, feeling embarrassed. "I've just never been really comfortable with people that have that kind of money. You are, you grew up like that and it's what you want in a partner."

Gemma is in a snit now. "So now I'm shallow?"

"Not at all," you insist truthfully. "If you were ugly, do you think Harry would have asked you for a second date?" 

She's quiet and blushing further. "No. I guess not." 

I nod. My point exactly. 

"You are just two people coming together who want something from the other. It's as pure and honest as any part of a functional relationship."

The two of you are quiet, fingers tracing the lip of the plate from the scone the two of you shared.

"Well, I hope we go out again," Gemma says with a bright look. "I mean, if I'm honest, I didn't feel a huge connection, but he's so good on paper. Handsome, rich, tall, charming." 

"But do you actually enjoy his company?"

Gemma looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

"Gemma," you admonish, "you're always telling me about how you want to find love and be swept off your feet." 

"I do," she insists, "I just think we have a choice in who we love and my choice should take certain things like looks and money into account. I’m thirty, I want kids, and I want stability." 

You want to tell Gemma that she’s capable of having all of those things on her own if she really wants. But you know that it’s not just that. She wants the cache of a partner up the social ladder.

“Well, then I hope this works out for you,” you say sincerely. “And if not, trying to find someone who knows about art preservation.”

By the time you reach your apartment your stomach is rumbling. You skipped lunch to work on some of the finer detailing on the portrait.  You think of the all night deli across the corner and its beckoning croissant sandwiches and make your decision quickly. You throw your sketchbook into your bag. 

The night is chilly and you pull your jacket to your chin. In true New York fashion you don't smile at anyone, you keep your head down; you ignore the fact that you're still upset about the memory of Jarrod.  

You duck into the deli, cheeks and nose chilled. The place isn't busy, not at this hour. A few night owls linger at some of the tables, tapping away on their laptops, a tired man behind the counter raising a nod your way over their phone. 

"A number two and a coffee."

You take a number and a seat, bringing out your sketchbook as you wait. The music playing is rhythmic, quiet, but relaxing. You should thank the serious looking man behind the counter for his choice in tunes. 

The door opens behind you as you debate the menu. You've been curious to try the avocado turkey on rye. 

"Number two," you tell the man with confidence. "And a coke. Thanks." 

"That’ll be $8.66."

You reach into your pocket for your wallet but an arm has come around you to place a fifty on the counter. 

"I've got it." 

The man at the till takes it without question but you whip around, shocked at the random act of kindness. Familiar brown eyes swim into view and your surprise turns to irritation. 

"You."

Harry gives you a dimpled smile. "Good Evening.”

The man at the till tries to give Harry his change but he just shakes his head, a light lift of his hand and the man pockets his large tip. You know you're scowling at this pathetic display of charitable giving. It's easy to give away money when you have so much of it. 

"I can afford my own dinner."

"I know," Harry says.

You think about paying the amount you were going to, but the man at the till is heading over to another customer to answer a question. Harry continues standing there looking at you with interest. That same calculating look you've seen in him before. 

Fine. If this idiot wants to pay for your sandwich you'll let him, considering his appearance has now dampened your mood. 

"Thanks," you mutter his way, taking a table number and slinking away into a nearby booth.

You open your sketchbook, dutifully ignoring the annoying Harry still at the counter, speaking with the man behind the till.  

You're shocked when you hear the guy laugh, a low chuckle. You've been coming to this deli for months and you've never seen the guy crack a smile, let alone laugh. 

Probably hoping for another big tip. 

You hold in an eye roll and begin to sketch lightly. Your mind is driven to darkness today. Black spiky limbs reaching for the sky. 

A can of soda is placed on the table by your elbow, accompanied by a low voice.

"Forgot this."

Fuck. You sigh lightly before taking the can from him, murmuring your thanks. When he lingers, watching you pop the tab you attempt to be cordial. This is Gemma's potential boyfriend after all. 

"This doesn't really seem like your scene."

You're not looking at him when you speak. You're taking a sip of the fizzy drink, nose wrinkling a moment when the carbonation tickles your nose. 

Harry stands next to the booth like an awkward waiter, holding an espresso on a saucer. He's dressed in slacks and a charcoal sweater, a tweed jacket over top. He went to an effort, not that you’d know because you're still not looking at him. 

"I like sandwiches as much as the next guy." 

What he doesn't tell you is that his driver was pulling up to your apartment building when he saw you exit, looking agitated. When you walked into the deli he thought it was a perfect excuse. Much better than his original idea of just showing up at your home with a proposition. 

"Okay."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. He was ready for it He watches you go back to your sketching, letting the moment stretch. You don't seem to be upset by his presence. 

The sandwiches arrive, both placed unceremoniously onto the perpetually stained tabletop. Harry motions to the chair opposite you at the table. 

"May I sit?"

You raise your head from your sketches, casting an eye around the fairly empty deli. "There are lots of open tables."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. Almost like he was ready for it. "It's not a matter of space, more the company." 

He watches you wrestle with this before lifting one arm in a casual shrug.  

"Knock yourself out."

He suppresses a grin, sliding into the booth opposite you. He can't remember the last time - if ever - he was in a tiny eatery like this with its cheap menus and yellowed floors. 

He watches you take a bite of the sandwich in one hand, the other still furiously sketching away. He watches you for several moments and eventually you feel those big brown eyes on your face and you glance up to see his sandwich untouched. Why is he here?

Harry glances down at the greasy sandwich, hiding a sneer. He wouldn't feed this to his worst enemy. 

"Do you need something?"

You're looking at him with anticipation, as if you're scared of what he might say. 

"I wanted to know if you'd be interested in an exchange of services," he says coolly. "A barter." 

This is how he is in the boardroom; this is how he commands the people he works with. Blunt, forward, confident, charming when he needs to be, but ruthless he just as easily. 

The pencil stills on the page, your nose wrinkling. "With you?"

"Mhm."

He watches the way you blink at him, head tilting slightly. 

"I don't need financial advice and according to Gemma you could buy out the entire gallery, so I don't really get what you want from me."

You feel strangely trapped by him here in the booth. You could slide out and run but would you make it? As if sensing your unease, Harry shakes his head slowly. Fingers lifting from the table briefly.  "You don't have to say yes." 

"I probably won't."

He smothers a chuckle. Gemma was right, you are blunt and you are funny.

"My mother wants me to marry," Harry tells you. "The sooner the better."

"And you're a Mama's boy?" 

He smirks. "Maybe a little." 

"Gross." 

You lean back to take a sip of coffee, eyes peering at him over the rim. "I thought you had a matchmaker?"

He shifts in his chair. "I do." 

"So then why are you here talking to me?"

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. Harry shuffles, one arm over the back of his chair affecting casual interest. 

"Because I want to hire you. I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend for the next several months because I believe it would be mutually beneficial to us both." Harry takes a sip of his espresso now, secretly amused when you drop the pencil.

"Excuse me?" You blink rapidly, lashes fluttering. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're dating Gemma."

"I went on two dates with her."

"She likes you."

"She likes my status, not that I begrudge her for it. But after two dates it’s clear that she wants a husband who will cherish her, who’s every waking thought will be about her. That's not me."

You're quiet because you know he's right. As much as Gemma liked his money, the things she liked most about her dates with Harry was the places he took her, the romance. How he held her hand on the carriage ride, how he listened about her job. Little, beautiful moments. 

Harry takes advantage of your stunned response. "Gemma is a lovely girl, but not a good match for what I need."

"And you think I'm what you need? I don't even like you." 

You stare at this man with his expensive watch and clothes and haircut. He even smells expensive. 

"You're intelligent, confident, attractive," Harry lists these things not with the affection of a lover, but an appraiser at an auction. 

"So is Gemma."

"Yes, but she's also looking for a true relationship, for love. And I can't give that to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm capable of it." He regards you with a tilt of his head. "I'm selfish, I like my job, I enjoy my own company, I'm driven and I'm not very romantic."

"You're very honest," you say, almost impressed. Almost. 

"I find it saves time to be direct." 

He watches your eyes survey him, appraising him like you would a piece of artwork needing to be restored.  

"Gemma said you took her to dinner at Mastros. Then to central Park for a horse drawn carriage ride." 

"I did."

"And that didn't seem romantic to you?"

"I know it was romantic," he replies. 

"Then why do you say you're not romantic?"

Harry leans back in the booth, drink forgotten. He points at your open sketchbook. "You know how to draw. Are you DaVinci?"

"Obviously not. No." 

"No," Harry agrees with a nod. "But you know enough about art from study. You know proportions without thinking about it. If someone random asked you to draw them a cow you could do it."

"Sure."

"It would mean nothing to you, but it would look like a nice image of a cow at the end. The person would walk away happy with their picture. But you wouldn’t feel attached to the sketch nor the process. It’s no different than how I approach romance. I know what it looks like, I’m happy to give it.”

You fall quiet, arms crossing. You've never thought about romance like that. So route. 

"I've already spoken to Natalia at Adore," Harry continues. "She's setting Gemma up with two of my friends I talked into joining. They're younger and richer and hopeless romantics. Gemma will be just fine." 

You don't know how you feel about that, the way he speaks about it makes it feel like something akin to prostitution. 

"She wants romance and love along with status," Harry reminds you. "Both of those men fit the bill and either one of them would die to date a woman like her." 

"But not you." 

"No. Not me." 

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. "What's in it for me?" 

"You'd be paid very well." 

He sees the hesitation in you now. The way your eyes jerk to the side as you digest his offer. 

"How well?"

Harry takes a piece of paper folded from his pocket. He came prepared. He slides it across the table, biting back a grin when your eyes bulge open. 

"You're not serious." 

"I am." 

Anyone else would have used computer paper, but not Harry Castillo. He used heavy card stock; the amount written in thick black ink with what you're sure was a fountain pen.

"How long would this charade go on for?"

"Six months." 

"Six entire months?" You make a disgusted face. "No. No chance."

You go back to your sketching, the subject clearly closed for you. You toss the piece of paper towards him, forgotten so easily. Harry sucks in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. Rejection always stings. 

"I'll double it." 

Your eyes rise up to his. "What?"

"The amount on that paper. I'll double it." 

Harry watches the way your eyes round, lips parting. He can't deny he enjoys shocking you. He watches you slump into the booth, your eyes darting back and forth between the table and the amount on the page.

"There must be other women you could ask." 

"None that don't want love or commitment."' Harry takes another sip of his espresso before it clinks back into place on the small saucer. "Gemma told me your views on romance and that's when I knew this would work." 

You sit for several moments debating the exorbitant sum on the paper and the year of your life you won't get back. But this kind of money is life changing. 

You look at Harry, really looking at him. "Don't you want to find a girlfriend? A real one?"

"I thought I did," Harry shrugs. "I attempted it. But I don't think it's something I really need. And from what I gather, that isn't what you desire either." 

He's right. But still you hesitate, fingering the thick paper.This could be a lucrative venture couldn't it? A chance to erase debt and start a life you've only dreamt about? And it's only a year. A year could go by fast. 

But a year of secrecy, of false affection. 

"Are we... Are we allowed to find company outside the fake relationship?" 

He raises a brow. "Company?"

"Sex," you state flatly. "Unless you think this amount means I'll be your personal concubine?"

It's almost endearing watching his cheeks flush. "I don't need to pay for sex." 

"Just for a fake girlfriend." 

You watch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk. Touche. 

"Sex is not required, of course. I would only request that company outside our arrangement be as discreet as possible." 

"That seems fair." 

Harry raises a brow, intrigued. "So you're agreeing?"

"I'm thinking about it." 

Harry nods, standing and buttoning his dark blazer. You have a lot to think about and he doesn't want to rush you. He needs commitment not a lukewarm agreement. He slides over his business card. 

"My number is on the back. I'll wait for your decision, whatever it may be." 

He sticks his hand out like it's a business deal and you take it with a little smile, amused. You shake briefly and he stands the purpose of this meeting over. He gives you a dimpled smile.

 “I hope to hear from you soon.”

He knows he will.

It takes a long time to get to know someone, but they tend to meld with your soul once you do in one way or another.

From the start, Joel was intimidating. He was so frayed around the edges that you were afraid he'd completely unravel in the middle of your journey. He didn't seem to care for your company as the two of you traveled across the plains to Jackson, hesitation poisoning every fiber of your being, but you kept on with the strange man since no one else was willing to trek across the states. You desperately needed a new life, a fresh start away from the Boston QZ, and Jackson sounded like the perfect spot.

Over time, Joel opened up, conversing little by little as you drove for miles across the now barren US. Usually, after you had a close call with raiders or the lone gunman, he'd go silent, the weight of protecting someone other than himself sinking further into his soul, consuming that much further.

What you never expected was for him to be your first touch.

Sweltering tension slowly grew like a wildfire. Catching each other's curious stares, lingering fingers, and salacious banter until, one night, he slid a cautious hand into your panties. He claimed your untouched sex when you confessed over a roaring fire and a bottle of whiskey that you'd never been with another. His weathered hands were gentle as he sunk his fingers into your core, watching with rabid fascination as you came for the first time, gasping from his touch.

The following day, as he drove you across the interstate with the sun slowly rising, he made sure you knew that wouldn't happen again. "I'm much too old. Don't wanna waste your time with a mean ol' grump like me."

You didn't bring it up again.

One month after settling into Jackson, picking bedrooms, and deciding who would do which chores, Joel had his first taste of you.

It wasn't supposed to happen.

You chewed your dinner slowly in the modestly sized dining room across from Joel. You were so lost in thought that he was concerned enough to ask what was wrong.

"What does it mean when a man eats you out?" you naively pondered, causing him to choke on his veggies.

Joel had never looked so red before as he took a long drink of whiskey. You instantly apologized, explaining that you overheard a group of women conversing while you tended the communal garden.

He raised a hand, curbing your frantic rambles. "S'ok. Figured you'd be learnin' things. Just didn' think I'd be the one you'd ask."

"But I trust you."

His jaw twitched at your words.  

Later that night, Joel fell to his knees at the edge of your bed and tossed your legs over his broad shoulders. "Never tasted a pussy so sweet," he mumbled against your glistening folds as you ran your fingers through his graying curls. You came multiple times on his tongue, grinding his whiskered jaw while he hungrily lapped at your soaked folds like he was dying of thirst.

You didn't bring it up again.

It's warmer in Jackson now. The sun hangs longer in the sky. Snow boots and jackets are stowed away until the next freeze.

You slink from the warmth of your bed and pad sockless across the hall. Lightening flickers brightly under the starry sky. The night rain storm slowly whirls through the city, soaking everything in its path.

Joel's door is open. A soft smile tugs at your lips; it's his way of saying he's still up. He keeps it ajar while he reads before rolling onto his side and bidding goodnight to the world.

Three soft knocks alert Joel from the guitar-building manual he's currently reading. Dread clouds his mind for a moment, wondering why you'd be knocking on his door at this time of night, but he takes a deep breath and grounds himself in the softness of his bed.

"Yeah?" he calls out. His tone is rough around the edges after a long day on patrol.

You poke your head around the door with a timid smirk. He looks at you over his reading glasses before marking his spot and laying his book on the side table.

You don't say anything as you stride into his room. He notices your oversized shirt swaying at your knees before you climb into his bed and curl against his side like a cat. 

He drapes an arm around your shoulder, unconsciously pulling you closer.

"'Nother bad dream?" he questions with a low rumble.

You shake your head. "Can't sleep."

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his shoulder and feel him nod, understanding the endless struggle for a night of peaceful sleep. It's improved since moving to Jackson, but the dreams never end.

Silence fills the bedroom except for the soft pitter-patter of rain against the roof. Joel leans against the headboard, sighs through his nose, and lets his thoughts drift. He's content to sit with you in his arms for as long as possible, even if that makes him selfish.

He wonders if you hope to find someone to settle down with, someone less ridged and mentally maimed, someone less him.

The thought drives a stake through his heart.

He'd be crazy to say he didn't love being around you. Your laugh and lopsided smile took the first brick out of his impenetrable fortress when you spied a deer and her calf frolicking in an open field in Kansas. From then on, it became easier for him to let his walls down.

When you came to him with those big doe eyes and urges about wanting to know what it's like to be touched and desired, he gave in each time despite his reasoning.

He would masturbate each time after getting his hands on you, also thinking about the early days when he'd catch glimpses of you changing or the time he first saw you naked while showering at the YMCA. 

He's still trying to figure out what to make of you. Friends? Lovers? He certainly didn't mean to fall head over heels. Love had no place in his heart, but he'd be a fool to say he wasn't extremely fond of you.

"Can you make me feel good again?" your lithe voice broke the silence.

Joel stops breathing. Your question doused him like a cold bucket of water. He knew this would come back and haunt him.

His hand curls tight around your shoulder as he wrestles with the devil on his shoulder. "Told ya we shouldn't keep doin' this, Sweetheart," he reasons, trying not to break your heart.

"But I can't make myself feel as good as when you've done it. I've tried!" You whine, burying your face into his chest.

"S'not that I don't wanna," he admits, soothing your soft cries. "S'just, you're too precious to do that wit' someone like me."

You lift your head and brazenly brush your lips against the exposed skin of his collarbone, earning a low groan as he curls a large hand around the back of your neck. He tugs you away from his skin, your lips still forming a tight 'O', and pins you with a stern gaze.

"Joel, it hurts." Your watery eyes and trembling bottom lip are his downfall.

"Lay back, Sweetheart, and spread your legs," he orders with a husky tone.

You don't make a noise; too afraid he'll stop if you do. Your cunt beats against the gusset of your panties as you lay on your back, spreading and bending both legs at the knee, just like he taught you.

A warm breath fans down your face as he shifts down your body before kneeling between your legs and tracing teasing fingers over your covered mound. His nails lightly scratch along the worn cotton, making you suck in a frantic breath. He slips a practiced hand beneath the crotch of your panties and deftly explores your folds, gently rubbing small circles on your clit after wetting his fingers with the arousal that's pouring from your cunt.

"Oh, she's achin' real bad, huh?" he groans as your opening clenches beneath his wandering touch.

"Joel, please, I need-" You gasp, hips wantonly grinding against his hand, desperate for any type of friction.

The muscles in his jaw ache. It's only natural you'd be wanting more.

Before he thinks twice, Joel draws his cock out from his sweatpants. Your stomach cramps at the sight as it smacks against his belly; he's massive.

His cock hangs heavy between his thighs like a solid, dangerous threat. It weeps from the dusky tip, shiny liquid dripping from the crown as he squeezes his hand around the girthy base peppered with dark gray, wiry hair.

"Got somethin' that'll make you feel good, sweet girl." he grits, tapping his cock against the covered crux of your pussy. It thwaps devastatingly against your clit, forcing a gasp from your lips as mind-numbing pleasure races up your spine and leaves you staring dumbly up at him.

"S'that what you need? Need my cock to keep 'er from achin so bad'?" his cock is searing as it lies in wait atop your panty-clad mound. You swear you can feel his blood pumping steadily into his shaft.

He cautiously thrusts his hips, sliding his length along your cotton-covered mound. Your slick arousal seeps thru the material, wetting the thin cotton and creating a sensuous touch as he glides along your cunt.

He shoves your shirt up over your chest, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. He licks his lips, "Such'a beauty."

Your cheeks flame at his words. Having such a man say things about you makes you lightheaded.

Joel groans as your panties practically are now see-through from your combined fluids staining the cotton, "Oh, baby." You whine at his pet name. "I got ya. Keep those legs open, just like I taught ya. S'good girl."

He keeps a steady pace, sawing back and forth over your extremely soaked mound. Your puffy pussy lips stick to the soaked cotton, leaving nothing to Joel's imagination. He glides easily along your slit, your juices smoothing his path until your arching your back and chanting his name like a prayer.

Watching you orgasm under his touch is enough to drive him wild. He throws all sense of logic out the window. He's okay with being selfish again.

"Let's get these off, yeah." He hooks two fingers under the elastic and slides your panties off before his words register in your euphoric haze. "Feel even better without 'em."

He swallows hard at the sight laid out before him. The sheets splay and curve around your naked body, making you look like an ethereal being sent to test his limits.

"Gonna give 'er a kiss, Sweetheart," his deep timbre vibrates your body as he draws close and touches the bulbous tip of his cock to your exposed folds. Blood rushes to your cunt instantly, bordering on the edge of pain. You cry out from the intense contact, and arousal slips freely down your crack as he traces his cockhead up and down your soaked slit.

"How's she feel?" He anchors his head, looking down at you from under his lashes.

"S'nice," you half whisper, half moan. The wanton bliss slowly consumes you the more he rubs against your sticky folds, keeping a hand locked around his girthy base, his crown glistening with your combined arousal.

Your eyes tear open, back arching like a bow, when he cants his hips and taps his cock square in the center of your cunt.

"M'not gonna fuck you, sweet girl, wanna keep you whole," he declares, holding true to his word despite the overwhelming need to claim you.

He can't be the one to sully you. "Ain' much left'a this world that's as sweet n' pure as you."

Your core quivers as his dusky, throbbing crown glides along your glistening seam. He tentatively explores uncharted areas, brows furrowed with concentration, fighting with inner demons who want to claim, corrupt, and mold you for only his touch.

His name leaves your lips with a mess of desperate, frustrated moans, "Please, Joel."

He snaps out of his haze. He's done almost everything he can to keep you safe and protected in this new way of life. He'll be damned if he doesn't grant you anything you ask for.

"S'hurtin' somethin' fierce, huh?" He grunts, angling his hips until his cock lines up with your fluttering hole. "Bet she needs somethin' big'er than fingers to ease 'er throbbin'."

His cock catches on your opening, forcing a hiss through his clenched teeth. As tight as you are, he can't stop from pushing into your warmth. He blocks out any sense of reasoning that's shouting from the back of his mind as he slowly nudges his cock into your weeping, inviting hole.

Joel goes brain-dumb momentarily, watching in immoral awe as your core ever so slowly swallows his fat tip and breaches your quivering hole, forcing a raspy whine from your throat.

So warm, safe, and wet.

Joel's never felt anything like you. He wants to bury himself, slide his cock as deep as he can, claim every inch, endlessly fill you with his cum, and keep you only for him.

You frantically reach for him, hands clutching the air as he rubs a callous thumb over your clit while keeping a steady hold on the base of his cock.

"S'all she's gonna get," he states, returning to his senses and hissing when your cunt tightens. "S'just the tip."

A soft begging whine bubbles from your lips as you extend your arms, needing something solid to hold before latching onto his wrists.

Your hips move on their own, desperate to feel his length completely shunted in your velvet warmth, but brute hands envelop your hips and pin them to the bed.

He shakes his head, salt and pepper curls fraying across his forehead. "Don' be greedy now." He tuts, narrowing his gaze down at you.

A garbled mess of nonsense tumbles from your lips as your fingernails dig into his muscular, hairy forearms.

"I know. S'big, huh?" He lands a solemn thumb on your clit, rubbing tender circles around the tiny bud. "Stay wit' me, sweet girl. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

Your mind spins. It's all too much, and yet, not enough. Your head tosses from side to side, and you're frantic to survive, breathing hard and fast, waiting for the drop to come and, at the same time, never wanting it to come.

"Don't I deserve it? Keepin' you safe all this time." Joel muses, stroking his cock in time with his teasing thumb. His eyes never leave where he's splitting you open. He's barely penetrating you, but it's enough to know if he had, you'd be struggling to take him.

"Come on, Sweetheart. Let go f'me," he urges, his touch growing faster. Severe, tightly drawn circles tease you closer to the edge.

Your stomach flips. A heaviness settles in your throat, your heart lodging in the tight confines, your blood pumping faster and faster. A lithe whine slithers free, escaping into the dimly lit room and burrows into Joel's mind.

His jaw clenches, and a dark growl rumbles from his chest, "Thatta' girl. Make'a fuckin' mess'a me."

Your dripping hole quivers and throbs around his swollen tip as you come with a silent scream, body locking taut, trying its best to engulf his length entirely.

Joel curses, jerking his length with long, steady tugs and rubbing his weeping, cream-covered tip around your soaked folds before his spine goes straight, and he yanks his cock from your core, curling in on himself and spilling his seed all over your belly with a deep, gravelly moan.

You sag into his sheets, spent with a shiny thin layer of dew and white ropes of spend painted across your abdomen.

"Shit." Joel curses, breathing heavily as he holds himself by his hands, which press into the mattress by your head, keeping you locked beneath him.

You hold his studious gaze. His dark eyes ruminate, tinged with mood, as his gaze drills down into your very core, threatening to demolish your soul. You resign that this was nothing special. Just another night you won't talk about again.  

Joel eases off of you with a grunt, his bones aching from the tension despite the brief, pleasurable relief, and tucks his cock back away into his sweatpants. He shuffles to the bathroom momentarily before returning with a damp washcloth.

He wipes the cloth over your belly and between your thighs, cleaning the combined arousal from your skin before chucking the rag into the hamper with a sigh.

"I know," you mutter, grimacing as you roll onto your side and sit up, tugging your shirt down. "I won't mention it again."

A solid, warm hand on your shoulder stops your retreat. "Stay," Joel whispers with soft, yearning eyes. "I wan' you to stay, sweet girl."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 (𝐢)

𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 (𝐢) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝐢𝐢). 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐔'𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭. 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐧. 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐤. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐀 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐚𝐦?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐇𝐢𝐦?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐧 𝐀 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟?

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 (𝐢𝐢)

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞?

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 (𝐢𝐢𝐢)

She’s still hung up on one of Bucky’s ex-girlfriends. They broke up halfway through college. It’s been years. Still, his mother invites Dot to every family gathering—even Christmas.

She calls her daughter, which is, in your opinion, disrespectful towards your husband and his sister Rebbeca. Her children. You know families don’t have to be related by blood. Some of the happiest people you know were adopted.

It doesn’t irk you that Winnifred is still close to Bucky’s ex-girlfriend. She can befriend anyone she wants to. This is none of your business. But she forces you to face Dot, a woman your husband slept with, every time you visit his family.

In the beginning, you thought Winnifred only needed to warm up to you. You were the new woman in her son’s life—someone he didn’t even introduce to his family before proposing to you.

Bucky tried to explain to her that it was in the heat of the moment and that he had intended to introduce you to her and the rest of his family first.

Your wedding day was not as happy as expected either. Bucky was the perfect groom, the cake was delicious, and the music was too. Sadly, your mother-in-law decided to use her plus one to not bring her husband but Dot.

That was not the first time or the last time she brought you to tears. Many family events came and went, only for you to be left outside. Even though, Rebecca, George, and Bucky tried their best to make you feel welcome.

You liked Bucky’s sister from the beginning, and his father is a strict but kind man. If only his mother had tried to warm up to you. At least a little bit.

For months, you tried to invite her for lunch, a spa day, or just a slice of cake at your favorite café. Every single time, she turned you down, pretending to be busy with something more important.

Most of the time she said no to you only to spend the day with Dot. You heard so through the grapevine, from Rebecca or some mutual friends.

They have a special connection, and you don’t mind. Still, it stings every time you see Winnifred with Dot. She treats her like the daughter-in-law she never had. Her words, not yours.

Bucky told his mother a long time ago, even before you came into the picture, that he doesn’t feel comfortable having his ex-girlfriend around.

He’s not a cruel man. Bucky told his mother that she was free to be friends with Dot but to not force him to see her every time he wanted to visit his parents.

Winnifred ignored his wishes. Just like she ignored you when you called her out. All you got was a shrug, and that you are free to leave if you cannot be around her daughter.

“Just a few more hours,” Bucky whispers in your ear as your eyes drift toward his mother and her chosen daughter once again. “I know, I’m as pissed as you are. I told her to not invite Dot today.”

“She’ll never like me, Buck,” you sniff and look away. You made peace with Winnifred’s indifference when it came to you and your marriage with her son. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Nothing,” he hastily says. “You were an angel as always. From the beginning, it was you trying to have a relationship with my mother. If she doesn’t want to get to know my wife well, then she won’t…” He clears his throat. “We will be on our way back home in no time.”

You rest your head against his shoulder and sigh. “I’d die for some greasy food. Ice cream too, maybe with some beetroot.”

Bucky chuckles. “I’ll buy you all the greasy food. Maybe I can eat it off your chest.”

“Buck,” you tut. “We won’t get naughty at your parents’ house. Your mother already hates me, and I don’t want to anger her even more.”

Your husband’s features sadden. He had hoped that his mother would change her behavior. “Y/N, this is not, and never was, your fault.”

“How about I go to the bathroom, and you get me some food? We meet halfway to at least feast on the food Dottie ordered,” you giggle before kissing your husband’s cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

You turn to leave, earning a slap to your ass from your husband. “Hey, watch it, Mr. Barnes!” You point your finger at him.

“I could come with you,” he purrs. “You know, to help you pee.”

On your way back from the bathroom, you slip inside the kitchen to get a glass of water. You stop in your tracks, hearing your mother-in-law and Dot talk low about you.

“Yeah, she’s shamelessly walking around in a too-tight dress,” Dot giggles as Winnifred nags about your outfit, your make-up, and the food you brought to the barbecue. “She’ll never learn.”

You try to ignore their chatter and move past the kitchen to get back to your husband. Right when you are about to walk away, Winnifred calls your name.

“You know, sneaking around someone else’s house to spy on them is impolite,” she snaps at you, eying you up and down. “If you are looking for more food, I suggest salad.” She points at your middle. “You know, you got a little pudgy there.”

You’re taken aback. Winnifred isn’t your biggest fan, but she never openly attacked you.

“Did you eat out of frustration because you’ll never be the daughter-in-law I wanted?” She continues, unaware Bucky is standing right behind her. He came to look for you and, well, get naughty in the bathroom, or maybe his old room.

“No, you and Dot are not worth it.” You reply, a smirk tugging at your lips. “I got a little pudgy because your son and I are expecting our first child.”

You hold out your hand for Bucky to take it. “The reason Bucky didn’t want Dot here today was to announce my pregnancy.”

“And once again, you failed me and my wife,” Bucky adds. He squares his jaw while glaring at his mother. “Well, as Y/N isn’t the daughter-in-law you want, you won’t be missing out when you do not get to know your grandchild.”

“What…I?” She gasps, watching Bucky guide you out of the kitchen to bring you home. He’ll invite his father and Rebecca to celebrate your pregnancy later, excluding his mother for the first time in his life.